Alive to Beauty
“To become a Christian is to become alive to beauty.” ― Dane C. Ortlund
I’ll be honest and say I have no idea what to write or how to begin this post. I was just recently telling a friend that I can’t remember what I’ve learned this year, the stories I’ve read, or the things I’ve done. There’s been the consistency of the intangible–the passing of time, my tendency to stay up way past my bedtime, opening my eyes to a new day, and how I wake up in the mornings and just stay there. Light and fresh and clueless on the bed. There have been many times I have simply wanted to prolong the stay, to remain under the blanket and let everything else pass over me like a shadow. And when I do pull myself out, there are the small rituals of whispered prayers, the making of a cup of tea which is really to warm the palm of my hands and then I prop myself back up on the bed and my day begins, first with emails, and then with God.
I will say this has been a quiet and private year. It has been revealing in its solitude, and generous in its gifts. It feels somewhat brief, as though I walked into its door, touched its walls, and now I’m stepping out of it without much to show for it. As though I lived through it absentmindedly and from a distance, taking very little ownership of anything, refusing to get too comfortable, and hesitant to make myself feel at home. And yet, this is also the year I have felt so aware of my existence, confronted by it even. Many times I have caught myself thinking, “This is my life, this is my one precious life. What am I making of it? What is my full expression of being?” And other days, I lead myself towards the strangely comforting edge of “And what if I die today? What if I am wiped away from the face of the earth this instant?” I have no answers, only the will, the stubborn urgency, to dip my hand into my own living, and leave it there. Present and moving and touching and inhabiting.
If this letter to self on my twenty-seventh birthday is strange and seemingly without aim, this might be why.
Dearest T,
On Love: You are beloved. You are slowly coming to a full awareness of this adoption, of God’s heart for you. Of this identity, you are learning the painful labor of growth. That indeed, “The Christian does not think God will love us because we are good, but that God will make us good because He loves us.” He is making you good, and often, that asks much more from you than you’re comfortable to give, than you’re willing to let go off. For so long you’ve held to the idea of love as being seen, as care, as commitment. While these are not wrong, they are not all there is, and that knowledge has surprised you quite a bit. Now you know that “Love, in its own nature, demands the perfecting of the beloved…Love is not affectionate feeling, but a steady wish for the loved person's ultimate good as far as it can be obtained.” The walls will have to come down because it’s the only way people can come in and see you for what you are. Desire the posture of humility that allows you to be quick to listen, and slow to speak. Be teachable. You must open yourself to this molding in trusted hands. And you too must be brave enough to speak light where there is darkness. This is one of your weaknesses. You are conflict-averse. You coil at the thought of a confrontation. You have so often confused a problem with your own worth, regarding correction as an attack on you, but it is merely pointing to an issue that ought to be looked at. There is no real growth where there’s no discipline. Because you fear what words will do, you’ve stopped yourself from expressing them. But in love, you will have to speak truth. You will have to come boldly, and with kindness, acknowledge that which destroys your beloved. Your silence is easy, but so costly. An honest answer is like a kiss on the lips. Always remember this when your first response is to cower and hide. In enriching the lives of others, sometimes you have to be willing to pull out the thorn from their skin. You’re scared and they're scared, but it’s going to be okay. Let love lead.
On Self: You still wear your heart on your sleeves. You cried at The Mill when Ms. Arta told you about the cancer. She was sitting right across from you, a chocolate croissant and sandwiches on the table between you, and you dropped your fork upon hearing the news, lost all appetite and wept openly. In the midst of those people, you reached for her hand, and raised it to your cheek. You cried on the phone hearing about your mom’s health, your brother’s health, saying to the people you love “I don’t want anything to happen to you.” You don't think twice about it. There are no walls here, only great emotional intensity. You feel sorrow tug on your heart and you give in to it. You are all lucid and reckless and bare in these bright sensitive moments. This has also been a year of self-suppression. You have grown a maddening vigilance about yourself. In a room full of people, of laughing faces, you think of all the reasons you don’t belong, of what you may have said wrongly, of how you look, of your inadequacy. It has never been this bad. Everything in you seems to be begging to be small, to be unseen. You carry so much fear. The anxiety rises up inside of you like a tide and you hide your fidgeting hands. It is such strange timing too, since you are now surrounded by real community, building real friendships. Be a friend to yourself, T. Be patient with yourself. Be gentle. You are doing okay. Your friends care about you, they want you in the places they’ve invited you into. You are warm and compassionate. You are here and it matters that you are. Deep breaths.
You have not written much. Journaling , yes, but not much writing of stories. Not much reading either, sadly. You are afraid you have no good story left in you. That somehow, you’ve done all the writing you could ever do and that’s okay. I think you’re going to write a bit more. Get out of your head, and pick a good book to read. You’ll be fine. Do not get disillusioned. Do not be mistaken; these times are not chaotic, not ludicrous. You are not going under. You are not without hope. Remember, this is your blessed gift. You get to steward it. You get to grow your craft. At twenty-six, you’ve developed a steady practice of prayer journaling, of reaching for God much more than you’ve done in the past. Perhaps it is because you are strongly faced with the recognition of your limitedness, of your need, of the fleeting nature of your days. And also because of all the tears, all the pain, all the things that have upset you and worn you out this year. Charles Spurgeon said, “If you can't see His way past the tears, trust His heart” and you are, with God’s strength, learning to trust when everything else feels hopeless. You are learning self-denial, moment-by-moment obedience, and what it means to live life before the face of God at all times. To be good, as He is good; to be holy, as He is holy. You have failed many times. Always get back up on your feet. I suppose I will end with these words: In all things, always go to God. Give your heart fully to Him.
“Go to him. All that means is, open yourself up to him. Let him love you. The Christian life boils down to two steps: 1. Go to Jesus. 2. See #1. Whatever is crumbling all around you in your life, wherever you feel stuck, this remains, un-deflectable: his heart for you, the real you, is gentle and lowly. So go to him. That place in your life where you feel most defeated, he is there; he lives there, right there, and his heart for you, not on the other side of it but in that darkness, is gentle and lowly. Your anguish is his home. Go to him.” —Dane C. Ortlund, Gentle and Lowly: The Heart of Christ for Sinners and Sufferers
“But as for me, it is good to be near God. I have made the Sovereign Lord my refuge. I will tell of all your deeds.
Psalms 73:28
