Roughly one year ago I was driving from Chicago to Kansas with my sister, going home for two weeks before moving for an indefinite length of time to Soldotna, Alaska.
Twelve months, innumerable plane rides, and more tears than I could have imagined later, I sit on my couch in Chicago, Illinois, learing to breathe.
Sure, I know how to open my mouth and use my lungs; my body is pretty efficient at the whole oxygen-to-energy cycle. Physically, I've got it down. But when I apply that same scientific analogy to my heart, something just doesn't quite line up. I can breathe oxygen, but I cannot breathe Jesus, the true breath of life, the only power that will sustain through these mountains and valleys.
Instead I put my heart in a coma; not dead, just suspended by the oh-so-many distractions this world is eager to provide. My vices are not alcohol or drugs; not even video games or excessive internet usage. I numb my heart with my mind. I read and rationalize and occupy my thoughts in every direction but the one I know I should go. And I can sit here and write this, knowing that many will expect a happy ending, some great life lesson here, some way God is showing himself to me to help me out of the valley.
Sorry to disappoint. I am learning to breathe by choking and fighting through it.
3 comments:
welcome to life, megan. it's not easy, and it often gives the impression of suffocation. but even when you don't feel you can breathe, the breath of life is doing it for you. he will never--and will always--leave you breathless.
The time in the valley is hard, but just remember you're not alone. Sometimes that's all there is to hang onto, this knowledge. But it's also a lot to hang onto, when you think about it.
new post. and i should talk to you sometime... can you converse tonight (tues. 8/8)?
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