Some Help

I don't often write posts like this. It is more of an inquiry than anything else.

Tonight I read a story in Sex God, by Rob Bell about a wedding where the couple walks out into a field and lets go of balloons. The gesture symbolized them letting go of their pasts in order to create a new future together. A couple of years later, the couple divorced.

I have probably read this story more times than any other passage in this book. It crushes me. It twists in the deep and I want to press my hand against the story and make it new, let it end with balloons bouncing against the bottoms of clouds, finding their way through a great maze of atmosphere.

But the story doesn't end that way.

I look at my story, my head lost in the clouds for a few moments, hope snuggling in the soft stem of me, and a few moments later the realization that everything is still a mess--my room strewn with clothing and records and books and glasses where water used to sit and gradually evaporate; the passenger side of my car splashed in mud; one job ending soon; the world growing cold and desperate; my inability to focus on anything; how very empty and cold my hands are and how my time seems not to have done a thing about that.

But then, some days, with good organic stories, lovers still choosing one another, delicious kitchen experiments to long winding road songs, smiling strangers, art on the street, a look caught before it was too late, a honest word spilt finally despite the risk, a walk in the leaves, a rocking chair, sitting in the mess and being okay, small successes, surprising conversations that last forever and stay fresh, slow movements, coffee-some days these things make me wonder how far down or up we really are.

And is it really discipline that gets us there? What about us hopeless cases? What about the ones who despair so quickly? What about the ones who live so far down in their minds that even the light hurts when it finds them, and it is so much easier to shrink back, to fall away?

I don't want to say that we should all just lay in bed and wait for God to come to us with breakfast on a tray, an invitation to work at our dream job folded nicely next to the orange juice, a flower from some idealistic boyfriend smilingly perched in a vase. I know that to live is to risk. To get anywhere implies jumping from enormous terrifying heights.

But, is there room for Something to help us fall, help us make our beds in the morning and actually apply for jobs, be strong enough to risk relationship, meet the world and test the soft skin of its wounds with our trembling fingers? I've often asked God for help but never believed he/she/whatever would really be interested in lending a hand. In fact, I doubt I've ever believed he/she/whatever felt that I needed help.

When I think about it, I find it fascinating when people say, "We could only have accomplished ____ with God's help," or, "God, we need you to help us be _________ and _______ kind of person."

I know that it is in desperation that we realize a lot of things--that we delve into the dark waters to find the ropes that might (just might) lead to something important, something that would make us feel okay about coming up for air.

I feel like I need something to help me along. I don't trust life, anymore. I don't "believe" in life. And in a way, I don't "believe" in myself. I want to learn to like myself, and to trust myself in some senses, but to rely entirely on myself is beginning to feel impossible. I know many of you might not agree with that statement. Perhaps we'd have to discuss it in person, for me to really make my point. But, I am terribly fallible. And I'm trying to believe in Something or Someone, who might not be as crazy as me.

It's fascinating how the mere thought of setting some of this weight into God's hands makes me feel more capable. I still can't logically explain it, because I can't prove God, but for me, right now, this is what has to be. I have to hand it over, because otherwise, I will drown.