“God loves YOU!” The large purple billboard seemed to yell at me as I drove past. An unexpected addition to the Northwoods roadside. Normally, I might have smiled or ignored it entirely but today the radio also seemed to be trying to get my attention with this simple yet often unfathomable imperative: God loves you.
I teared up and thanked God making a mental note to add this experience to my chapter entitled “Signposts.” Sometimes God is mysterious, silent and seems hidden and sometimes He is literal and in our faces — if we are looking.
The past few weeks I have been tucked away at our cabin in the Northwoods with the intention of working on the manuscript for my third book. I have organized it. Reorganized it. Read the already written chapters over and over and I have yet to add one new word to the book. I feel paralyzed. Not from writer’s block or fear or busyness (I truly have nothing to do here but the chores I create to do).
What surfaced while receiving God’s love driving alone through the deep woods — I am paralyzed by a broken heart.
This year our family has taken many hits. We can’t seem to get to safe harbor, the wide-open spaces of calm with no crisis or conflict. I’m not a young woman. I know life is hard for everyone. I’ve seen what life is like for women and children in unthinkable poverty and disease, abuse and oppression. I am no stranger to life on life’s terms. I understand storms will violently hit and we must weather them. I know these storms do not last forever. There are still waters ahead. Yet even while nestled in the woods next to a calm lake the roar of life’s stresses seems unrelenting. In my husband’s and my life, and in our children’s. We are thankful we have each other and we know under it all, all things pass, that in Him all things are made new.
Yet we are only human and sometimes, if not our faith, our resilience in faith, is challenged. We are not quite there and we are still on the journey — climbing the mountain, fighting the Orks, having boulders thrown at us, getting lost while darkness and storms threaten us and those we love. We’ve lost trusted friends and journeymen. Pain, abandonment, betrayal and death are real and the journey is hard.
I’m a housewife and a writer. A mom and a career volunteer. On the outside my life may not look as dramatic as Bilbo Baggin’s or Harry Potter’s yet is not that the point of those wonderful tales? The journey rages within and it must continue. As those myths help internalize, I have come to believe the secret to continuing, to keep moving, is to remember where I am going. What is my quest? Who is with me? Who has left me and why?
Ultimately, it is my journey. Only I choose to keep me moving, wounded and tired, but still climbing. I challenge myself to believe the signs when I am told God loves me. I gather my shaky faith and knees and get up… again. In pain, I take another step despite feeling paralyzed and despite believing I have nothing to say from such a broken place. I don’t slay an Ork or fight off a Dementor. I sit my bottom in the chair and I learn to write with a broken heart.