this is new.
I feel more like a child than an adult, most days. All this feels new, all this takes more trying. Feeling ignorant and a bit silly, I think I move in awkward, trembling fits and starts rather than smooth, bounding bravery. Then I hear someone say (probably you), that change is new, and new tries take failure most times, and that doesn’t change the beauty and goodness of it all, so breathe easy.
Sometimes I feel lost without a structure, without someone spelling things out. Now, there is so little of that, and I don’t know what to do with this extra movement. My living never was very rigid by its looks, but it seemed there was always some sort of grade or rubric at the end of it all to check-check-check and pass with flying colors. If not on paper, then in my head.
Now, do I still judge by inward obsessive tendencies (on their way out of me, but still there, fighting the light and the sturdy Door.) Or by trying to shape a confident-worker-woman look, so detailed that I start to believe it? Or by how many times my husband complimented me today, as compared with other days? Or by making it through a grocery shift without ruffling customers or letting bosses see me weak or faulty?
Or… need there be a judging at all? Do I need routine, or sameness, or comfortable, padded living, tiptoed through, so nothing can pierce me? So no change can knock me? So no self-construed red pen can mark against me? I need a different anchor, a different judge of me.
I think there’s slow peeling going on, a shedding to my raw parts, a salve of the Heavenly Father’s violent, tender grace touching me to the quick, as I unfurl colors you haven’t seen in me yet. (Some not worthy of the word “color,” but they hold their own hue just the same.) You are helping it, too, I imagine. Don’t stop the good exposure, even if I flinch. We’ll look again and smile in the future days, when minds and things aren’t so shadowy. Especially when that best harbor and shade make us finally glorious. When we’re finally you and me and home.
But I will need your hand, I will need your praying, because risk is a frightful word. Leaping and stretching and filling a space is daunting. Believing is hard. Tell me again, if I forget, that I can’t know or make the end, but it is okay to live partly seeing, partly knowing, yet brave to the uttermost, because grace is steady and enough.