Surrender

We stand facing each other, You and I, the feet-trampled grass stretching between us.  You look relaxed, confident, steady.  I am trembling, exhausted, tense.  You hold the rope gently, but firmly.  I look down at the bloody-raw mess of my hands, burned from gripping so tightly.  Your feet are planted on the ground, and they have not moved once.  My muscles burn with effort, at the point of shaking toward collapse.

I see the whistle about to be blown.  My arms flag and then tighten in preparation, the sweat already gathering on my forehead.  It’s time to begin again.

But how did we get here, You and I?  For what reason do we wrestle via this see-saw game, each determined to win our own way?  Each tug is truly an act of war.

Perhaps it starts in the womb, as I grasp the umbilical cord binding me to my comfortable, floating home, focused on staying where nothing can hurt me.  You begin the process of birth anyway, pushing me out, pulling me out, cutting me out, forcing me out into the cruelty of life.

It continues with a barrage of information and stimulation: learning, growing, falling, speaking, teeth violent in eruption, body changing, emotions heightening, hormones overpowering.  I am bombarded with life, with all that there is to see and to know.  My teachers are fallible, my protection invadable; and little wounds appear, scored into my soul.

Then the big wounds—the unthinkable chasms, the hateful words, the ragged heart-tearing, the slow, constant ache of abandonment, the deep, unfathomable bereavement—come flooding onto the scene.  They pour their malice and their sly, deceiving thoughts into the foundations of my mind, and I begin to feel cornered, unsafe, desperate. 

I am taught that only I care about my well-being, only I have the sword and shield lifted at every moment, only I feel the subtle, dark whispers of fear.  It is imperative that I protect myself.  Each scar gapes open, never fully healed, as I urgently pour distraction, escape, and comfort over it—my nursing skills learned in war.  I am curved inward­—always inward—a brittle-boned feeble, fetal posture ingrained in me from before I drew breath, and harnessed as my only armor against the cold.

Through it all, You are present.  I welcome You, especially at the beginning.  With conscious thought, I say You are in control.  I see glimmers of Your golden light hovering in the background.  Your soft words of love echo in the far recesses of my mind.  The Word lands one word in three into my kept treasures of truth.  Reminders of You inundate my landscape, shape my boundaries, and reflect in the company I keep.  I parrot Your words and harp them to anyone who will listen.  But it’s not enough.

If it were enough, we wouldn’t be stood here on this battleground masquerading as a friendly game.  I wouldn’t be trying for the countless time to pull You to my side, forcing You to be where I want You to be, who I think You should be.  I would not be adding to my misery by fighting the unfightable.  I would not tell my Creator how I should be created.  I would not rebel against the weaves of my story.  I would not be afraid that all will come crashing down.  I would not have scraped and fought and grim-faced my way through tragedy.  I would not be bone-deep certain that only I am interested in preserving any spot of joy for me.  And I would not be terrified of failing in all these things.

The whistle blows.  I heave with all of my strength, somehow convinced this time I can win, this time I can re-order the universe to be what I think it should be.  This time I will finally save myself, the way I think I should be saved.  This time I won’t be wounded through to the core.  This time I won’t choke on the darkness of my dreams of independence.

The rope doesn’t move, and I bellow rage against the ease at which You stand there, constant, fixed, eyes shining with a compassion I can’t believe You really feel.  Don’t You know what I am suffering?  Don’t You know how hard it is to be me?  Don’t You care that this world is so broken?  Don’t You see that my whole self is about to give way, despite every precaution, every safeguard, every barrier I put up to protect it?

I am alone in the battle, regrets and distractions raging against my end goals.  I waver, I cry salt-tears of despair; I am falling, the rope burning as it slides against my chafed hands.  The ground is muddy and smears against the legions of sores enveloping me.  They sting, adding to the pain, and the weariness is enough that I could lie here forever, giving up entirely.  I have failed and it is worse than I ever imagined.  I am going to be devoured because no one else cares enough to protect me.

I do.

Your words don’t penetrate the gloom saturating me, my blanket of false-shelter against the outside.

I did.

Shaking and huddling under the doom of my downfall, I open my eyes.

I will.

A sliver of hope, of reprieve, of wistful belief.

Always.

Your hands extend down to me and I see the puncture marks on Your wrists, gaping holes to match the ones in my heart, bleeding red love.  Maybe—just maybe—You understand.

The sound of water flowing is all around me, and being alone is no longer my uppermost thought.  I feel Your Presence, a tangible, vital, living Presence, that defies description.

You help me stand, and the mud-slick field of our skirmish is gone.  We are plunged under a clear waterfall of saving grace, and I feel the mercy of defeat.  Striving is washed away with the muck.  The tears I cry flow from a place of relief.  Is it truly over?  Are the waters really cleansing the bite from my injuries?  Are the sounds of water really Your words of deep choosing and deep knowing, purging the lies of loneliness and rebellion?  Can I truly be free of the shackles I forged to keep myself unharmed?

But why is all of this happening now?  Why not in the midst of a million other battles, a million other losses?  What threads of entreaty from Your perfect Spirit have I followed to make it here?  Finally.  My knees buckle, but You hold me steady, wrapping my battered heart with the sweet-smelling gauze of forgiveness.

Surrender.

I thought I had before.  I thought I’d given it all.

Acceptance.

I do want this, more than anything, more than anything.  Please, let it never stop.

Trust.

Oh, because this moment will end.  The war lives on, a vicious, clawing manipulator of souls.  As long as my heart beats, I will always end up back in the mud. 

Trust.

But this itself does not end.  This itself is constant reality, available to all.  It echoes in the flashes of light, in the rippling of water, in the fresh breath of a mighty wind, in the heart-cry of new life, in the tender caress, in the selfless deed, in the daily, consistent, wrenchingly difficult letting-go-of-the-rope-of-self. 

Tentatively, I turn, facing the harsh reality of my sin splintering the world.  I cannot fully dodge the shrapnel of the sins of others.  I can’t go out there; I’m afraid.  It will happen all over again.  You won’t protect me, and I won’t have what I need to survive.

Always.

I squint at the sudden illumination of my way.  I have never seen that path before.  It’s twisting, it’s uncertain, and I can only see a few steps.  But those steps are clear.  Your hand gently, irresistibly tugs me forward.

I take one step.  I stumble.  You catch me.  I fall.  You pick me up.  I am dragged down.  You sit with me.  I walk.  You lead.  I am in the midst of fiery darts.  You shield me.  I am wounded.  You heal me.  I stumble again.  I fall again.  I am blinded and fatigued and it is never, ever, ever over.  But.  Always.  Always means I can never truly fail because You can never fail.  Hope flares in my soul, diamond-bright, precious life-giving gleams of fortification.  I did not put it there.  It has Your sacrifice crafted into its unfathomable depths.

Longer between times, I stumble yet again.

Always.