Parched.
Eden hates to be alone.
As the baby sibling—ten years younger than her teenage sisters—she lives a charmed life. With four “adults” who can get her a snack, help her choose clothes, color with her, read her books, sing her songs at bedtime… she’s just not used to alone time, so it’s no wonder.
She doesn’t want to be upstairs if we are down. She brings her clothes into our bedroom to get dressed near us. She wants someone to sit with her while she watches a television show. (Ummm, no. That’s the whole point of putting on a show, babe).
Inadvertently, Eden has become so used to being together that nothing else will do.
As a parent, I can see that she will eventually need to learn to be comfortable with solitude. It’s a healthy human skill—learning to be alone, quiet, and self-soothing. Especially because by the time Eden finishes second grade, her sisters will both likely be off to college, and things will get much, much quieter. She will have a whole new normal practically overnight.
Recently, we were on vacation, and each of the girls slept in their own twin bed in a shared bedroom. Every morning, Nell would wake up to a five-year old under the sheets with her. At some point in the night, Eden was waking up, creeping over to Nell’s side of the room and crawling under the covers with her.
When I asked her about it, she shrugged, “I was feeling kind of lonely.”
Can I blame her? There is alone, and then there is lonely. I suppose it can take a lifetime to sort out the difference.
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I’m hesitant to say this because it sounds dramatic, but I’m finding that post-cancer life is actually harder than actively fighting cancer.
I’ve wrestled with uncaged feelings and emotions this summer. I’ve felt unmoored, frankly. I’m not sure who I am or what I’m about, which seems backwards. I’ve survived a trauma: shouldn’t I be all joy all the time, just glad to be alive? I’ve made it this far! I’m a walking miracle! Instead, I feel disillusioned and adrift.
I recently ran into a friend who is also a cancer survivor, and I mentioned this. “Oh, yes!” she concurred. We talked about how perhaps it’s like a soldier coming home from war. Out on the battlefield, there is purpose and direction and a clear goal. Once home, who are you? You rejoin your family and try to get back to regular life, but you’ve seen and experienced things that simply won’t leave you alone. There is no more regular life—it’s all been marked by your experience on the battlefield. As a soldier, you may even have physical scars and bodily changes that are a constant reminder, a daily grief. The way you see your future, the ways you relate to those around you, the way you view work and how you want to spend your time… it’s all affected. Mentally, physically, emotionally, spiritually… there is nothing left untouched.
Chatting with her brought a sense of peace: I’m not crazy. This is normal. I’m not alone.
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It doesn’t help that this summer I’ve felt a disconnect from God. What was once easy, breezy conversation with my Maker has become… quiet, like I’m not quite certain what to say anymore. I’m not sure who I’m talking to. The patterns and behaviors I’ve put in for years have failed me. I’m mute, and it seems to be a two-way street. Spiritual disciplines that I’ve leaned on for feelings of intimacy with God have been stripped bare. There seems to be nothing there—and I find myself parched.
Perhaps my secret fake God—the one who would never let anything bad happen to me; the one that I created from a figment of my own inner, wishful heart—perhaps this false Diety has been toppled. I’m finding myself quietly becoming reacquainted with the Real God; the slightly scary one who doesn’t play by my rules.
I’m reminded of a segment of the CS Lewis book, The Silver Chair, in which Jill and the Lion have an encounter by a stream:
‘Are you not thirsty?’ said the Lion.
'I’m dying of thirst,’ said Jill.
'Then drink,’ said the Lion.
'May I – could I – would you mind going away while I do?’ said Jill.
The Lion answered this only by a look and a very low growl. And as Jill gazed at its motionless bulk, she realized that she might as well have asked the whole mountain to move aside for her convenience.
The delicious rippling noise of the stream was driving her nearly frantic.
'Will you promise not to – do anything to me, if I do come?’ said Jill.
'I make no promise,’ said the Lion.
Jill was so thirsty now that, without noticing it, she had come a step nearer.
'Do you eat girls?’ she said.
'I have swallowed up girls and boys, women and men, kings and emperors, cities and realms,’ said the Lion. It didn’t say this as if it were boasting, nor as if it were sorry, nor as if it were angry. It just said it.
'I daren’t come and drink,’ said Jill.
'Then you will die of thirst,’ said the Lion.
'Oh dear!’ said Jill, coming another step nearer. 'I suppose I must go and look for another stream then.’
'There is no other stream,’ said the Lion.
—The Silver Chair (1953)
There is no other stream. And there is no way around the Lion.
God will sometimes let us feel lonely, even with him. The Psalms are proof of this. There are seasons where loneliness becomes a desperate thirst, and it pushes us into that uncomfortable territory right next to the Lion. Because while He may let me feel lonely, he will never let me be alone.
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Doubt is not a threat; it’s an invitation into something deeper.
I heard that recently, and it lodged itself into my heart. I couldn’t stop thinking about it, rolling around in my mind like a pebble smoothed by pounding waves.
I can’t help but wonder if maybe someone—perhaps, you— need to hear it, too.
There are questions that I thought I knew the answer to, questions that I’m revisiting with a whole different experience under my belt. Do I come to the same answers that I did before?
A. Is God good?
B. Does God love me?
C. Can I trust Him?
D. Might He devour me?
Yes—to all of them. The correct answer is E: All of the Above.
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I was contemplating how to finish this blog. How do I conclude something when I feel like I’m still in it? There is no happy, pat ending to this story. I have nothing to share like, “Five Easy Steps Toward Spiritual Satisfaction” or “How to Hear from God Again” or even “Ten Tips for Your Thirsty Soul.” Those might be best-sellers, but I don’t think they’re real.
I took Margie Sparkles on a walk down the street. The cooler breeze (It’s coming! Yay—it’s almost here!) blew across my face and actually whistled by my ear. I could literally hear the wind. My foot accidentally kicked a small pebble, and it caught my attention. I bent down to pick it up.
It slipped out of my fat Lymphedema-hands, so I crouched down and carefully used my fingers to grasp it again. I placed the pebble on my swollen palm. It was not white and not clear, but a translucent variation between the two. It was smooth on all edges, like a piece of worn sea glass. I held it up to the light: I could see color through the stone, but nothing clear.
What was this piece of worn sea glass doing on my street in land-locked Tennessee? Somehow, I’d never seen anything more beautiful. The pebble was exactly what I needed. Right here in my neighborhood, on my street, in my every-day life, holding this tiny, cloudy and mysterious pebble in one hand and a bag of dog poo in the other, I understood that just because we don’t see something clearly doesn’t mean it isn’t beautiful.
I wonder even, if the less we understand something the more beautiful it becomes.
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So, I approach the Lion. I sit down beside him and even dare to lean up against him, resting my tired body against His. I’m weary; I lean harder. And I drink… with one eye warily watching.
I think that’s only fair.
