help-meet

Help-meet.

It is still so foreign a concept to me. Still eludes me after nearly two decades as my job description.

I break it down: this compound word, this complex role, this verb on verb that creates a noun.

I am those verbs.

I am that noun.

I look at the beginning, when God created man and woman.

'God said it was not good for man to be alone."

It's hinting at me through the Bible story narrator, playing on the TV. There’s a little girl watching, wide-eyed. I have to smirk. I feel God winking at me.

Keep reminding me of your perfect plan. Tell me what you intended in the beginning, in the beauty of the Garden.

He takes me back to another beginning.

18 years ago come July, I sat my hippy self on a stone bench parked in the shade of the heart of town. I tucked my ankles under my thighs and began to write…and wait.

I was thinking about a young man who had eyes like mine. They looked familiar, like home, but a home yet to be built. My head lifted and scanned the distance all around, looking. I was waiting for him to come. Like a silly, giddy girl, I was waiting to meet him.

I knew his name, his dusty red truck, and his eyes. That was all, really. But I wanted to know more. So I positioned myself to where I could be easily seen - easily found.

I figured that's all I could do. I didn't know where he was, what he was doing, or where he was going. But I went the furthest distance I could go to find him, which was to let him easily find me, waiting for him.

I began to write in my journal, fighting to keep my attention on the pen and page. I eventually got lost in the words and wonder of what came spilling out. And just about that time, I took a breath and lifted my head to find him sauntering towards me. His hands were deep in his baggy shorts pockets; his hair was curled up around the edge of his hat.

He had found me. I blushed, a little embarrassed at being discovered.

He played it so cool, came and sat down right next to me, not saying a word. I looked him in the eye and immediately confessed, "...I knew you were coming."

We both smiled and stared into eyes, stunned. Warmth filled my belly. Who was this I was longing to meet?

What did I really know? I just knew he would find me there. Wondered if he had been looking for me, like I had been looking for him. Wondered why I was looking for him?

He had been all over town over the course of a couple days. He had circled around in his little red truck, hoping to find a putrid green Audie Fox wagon with a pixie-haired red head.

He was my stop sign, red.

I was his green light, go.

We met in the middle of stalling and seeking; intersected at a four way stop in the heart of town, the prime of our lives.

And now it's many journals and seasons later. Summers have simmered us and the winters have shown us the barrenness of our souls. I'm still learning how to meet him, help him, and love him. Learning how to keep showing up, searching out; how to be ready to welcome him - invite him into this home that I was built by God to be.

I've come at it from a dozen different angles, at different speeds. But only when my knees are burrowed into the earth, and my head is nearly resting on my back in reverence, am I able to even to do it remotely close to well.

Yet I am called his help-meet.

I'm to meet him well beyond myself, past comfort zones and into the most vulnerable voids. I'm to go as far as he will allow me, stretching myself, reaching, barely brushing with my fingertips at times - spanning a near impossible breadth. I am to meet him where our God-given free wills kiss and consummate.

I'm to meet him even if a no is given, when nothing is given, when indifference and elusiveness try to keep me at bay. I'm meant to meet him when busyness and offense try to choke out love. Even then, I keep trying to find him, connect with him, and meet with him. I keep coming, even in my own seeking, crucifying my pride, and making myself of service.

And this is how I help.

Help to take the distance out of the equation; to span the space in between simple and sacred. Help to take the miles we've tarried and make them work for us, not against us.

And I must not be God or attempt to venture into the intricate knitting of His hands. But I can desire to be like God, and search out my husband with His inexhaustible grace. I can get in front of him, stand vulnerable before him, bow low and wash his feet with prayer. I can pull him into my chest and bring him home. Give comfort, safety, rest.

I was created by Him, for him, because God said it was not good for him to be without me. I have called this into question more times than I can recall. I've scratched my head and clenched my jaw over it. I have agreed and disagreed, agreed to disagree. I've been stumped and bewildered, content and convinced. I've choked this truth down, chased it with some prayer, only to vomit it back up with my own pain. I've indicted God and His wisdom. And yet His wisdom proves true:

I am for him. I was made for him.

I have cried tears of resentment, spit rebellion, at His decree that my desire would be for my husband. Oh, the divine weakness of longing for something for a lifetime! Surely it was a curse, a cruel joke that assured me that I would never be fulfilled, that my ache would always throb. I have grappled in angst with this imposed posture upon my heart.

But, my desire IS for my Husband - my Husband in heaven. And my longings all lie open in safety before Him. I can trust Him, despite being setup for submission; in light of this command to stay on my back, to stay open, ready to receive.

Is He not the servant of all? Arms opened wide, He dangled on a cross, choosing to remain there, to receive it all and submit it all.

I can trust Him.

Stay put, heart.

Stay open, soul.

But who will meet me? Help me?  My insecurity begs.

He has met me. He has helped me. He has made Himself easily found by me. He's done for me what I must do for my husband. He's been for me what my husband must be for me.

He is for us. We are for Him. And it is good.

Very, very good.