The feeling is starting to creep back in. The swirling in my gut. The long stares at my headboard. My feet moving slower. A gnawing sense that an old phase is coming back to meet me. A phase where I won’t be able to keep up with expectations of normalcy. Where I repeat the phrase, “I can’t commit to much. My body can’t keep up.” It’s a time when a voice in my head reminds me to not let negative talk seep out too much knowing what I feel is not all that is there. My feelings are leaving out important parts, true parts, as true as the ambivalence.
Ambivalence: (n) simultaneous and contradictory
attitudes or feelings (such as attraction and repulsion)
toward an object, person, or action
That’s the word my counselor used six years ago. That was the feeling that pinned me down. Now, I have other words to add to the experience: autoimmune disease, sadness, shame, fear, and gratitude. How do you explain a fogginess, a fatigue that makes you cry at the task of tucking your kids in at night? See it there? Enter, shame. I am nine years into this low-grade illness that perplexes me. I have multiple doctors. A reality that I am amazed by. Across the world, most people don’t have access to any medical care. Yet, here I am, having three specialists, not to mention a small army of friends and family that fit the ride-or-die category. Enter, gratitude.
The last year has been the healthiest and happiest year of my life. Today, as I have this sense of the old illness friend returning, I am reflecting on, who am I kidding, I am frantically scouring the past nine years to remember what to do and what not to do. What got me through? What made me feel like death? How do I work my brain into a position to help me and not hurt me this time? The worst part about physical illness for me, is the emotional turmoil. The shame I feel over my struggle to cope emotionally. Sheesh. I can’t give myself a break. Upon my frantic reflection, I have landed on: worship.
Hear me out.
I am not someone who can say, “When I was at my lowest point, I felt the closest to God.” No. Not so far in my life. For me, what makes my lowest points so terrible is precisely the sense of God’s distance, his back toward me amid my pain. Otherwise, well, it wouldn’t feel so low. This is where I met ambivalence. Contradictory feelings about God- more so about God’s countenance toward me. In these years of ambivalence toward the God who put me here, right here in this body, I’ve groped my way to something. I stumbled clumsily, at times begrudgingly into worship.
It happened when I was lying in my bed, sick of the view but overwhelmed at the thought of changing it. Crying from exhaustion. Head pounding from crying. That miserable shame over feeling worthless to the world and myself in that bed. Begging from my guts to be free from that type of existence, I sat up, opened my palms toward the ceiling, and worshiped. I don’t remember what I said or sang or cried. I just know that my intention was worship. A grieving sort of worship that had no hope of understanding; no way of distinguishing his hand from the darkness. It was a giving up. It was begging. It was telling God about himself, in both senses of the phrase. Worship — even if only for truth’s sake.
There is an ancient story about a man named Job who lost everything as a victim of some cosmic betting match. Satan placed his bets on Job caving under the pressure of seemingly meaningless suffering and cursing God. God put his bets on Job remaining true- sticking with God. I’m not a fan of the plot, but my philosophy-driven mind swims in this kind of stuff. At the story’s climax, God meets Job who is distraught and can’t reconcile a good God with his lived experience of devastation. Once God reveals how God God is, Job says, “Behold, I am insignificant; what can I say in response to You? I put my hand on my mouth.”(Job 40:40). I had this picture in mind when I worshiped God, palms facing the ceiling. Except, we can see the end of Job’s story in a way that Job could not when he spoke those words. The story ends with God making it clear that Job was far from “insignificant”.
My “hand on my mouth” moment looked like an open mouth of worship; letting it out. The grief, the acceptance, the mystery, and the comfort in saying “You are God” came at once in admitting I am not God. This time, when I worshiped, I could believe that it is good that I am not God. And that’s my plan this time around.
Worship
Honey spilled from the lips
In days of wonder
seeping out,
it shines
Worship
An army of justice on the tongue
In the days of redemption
Let it roll
Let it roll
Worship
A mystery clung to the throat
a pleading for soothing
Why must it hurt so?
Worship
The steady melody of truth
echoing on the gums
In the days of misinformation
a desperate case
It speaks for itself
Worship
A mellifica wasp caught between the teeth In days of grief
demanding release
can’t hold it anymore
Worship
Honey production of rarest wasp
spilled from the lips
in days of knowing and unknowing
seeping out,
it shines
Worship energizes all of life. To breathe is to worship. To eat is to worship. To sleep is to worship. For the person who encounters Jesus, worship of him swallows us up in the best way. At the start, all may be light and color, falling in love: honey. When we live this life with Jesus, our eyes are open to needs all around us and within us. When we battle against injustices (also an act of worship), we face mighty resistance. We become battle-worn. Ambivalent. Where are you, God? Don’t you see? “Violence, violence!” calls out the prophet, eyes peeled for redemption, no redemption in sight (Habakkuk 1:2). Mystery. Then, acceptance of not knowing anything at all but that there is Jesus. He is here and it matters. It speaks a truth that is plain and sometimes hard to reach. Then, the wasp. For me gritting my teeth over the truth of God, withholding worship became a poison, a wasp caught between my teeth. The moment when my palms faced the ceiling was a release of that incessant wasp. It was a whisper that darted out, “You are God”. I mean, I can only ask without answers for so long. And maybe, that’s the point. Maybe God knows the answers I seek miss my own heart completely. In my life and in this poem, I see and strive after a worship that matures. A progressive ascent and descent. A rising depth. Where the honey of first love is tested and trampled on. In this journey that led me to the wasp set free, I pray the next step is the realization that it was this mellifica wasp producing honey for me all along. Returning me to the start, only this time with more depth and a surer sweetness that leads to; I dare to hope: joy.
But we must also find joy in our sufferings on his behalf. For we know that when the trail gets rough, we must walk with firm steps to reach the end. As we walk firmly in his footprints, we gain the strength of spirit that we need to stay true to the path. This gives us the hope we need to reach the end of the trail with honor. All of this is because of Creator’s great love that has been poured into our hearts by the Holy Spirit, who is his gift to us from above. (Romans 5:3-5 FNV)

About the writer:
Sara walks on the brink of existential crisis but tries not to take herself too seriously. She kinda likes it there. That’s where the poetry flows. Her most noteworthy experiences are in deep relationships with people. Sara writes poetry, sings poetry, and strips every church word to its bones. She’s kinda violent in that way. She managed to marry a man who is the same out in the world as he is at home and she still can’t believe it. Her children sing her praises every morning. God adores her and she’s almost convinced of it.
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