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.

today is a story

We've got stories to tell...
          ...testimonies to shout out over the seeking and sinking.

We've got a world of words...
          ...a universe of unspoken, longing to materialize in our mouths.

We've got chapters and books and volumes...
          ...pages and paragraphs; characters and spaces.

We've got hurts and heroes...
          ...victories and villains.

We've got mysteries that bewilder...
          ...romance to awaken and bloom brave, beautiful.

We've got pain and process...
          ...lessons, loss, and gain on a loop called life.

We've got pleasures that curl the toes...
          ...joy that flows; hope that soars; faith that defies all.

We've got real and we've got raw...
          ...words never uttered aloud; words held captive.

We've got right now - today - in this present place...
          ...to gather and savor...
                    ...to give and partake...
                              ...to live and disclose...

We've got stories to tell...

just do it

That thing... 

You know what it is. 

The one you've been putting off, tossing excuses at? 

Do it. 

And do it with naked confidence.

Yesterday

Not long into the morning and it begins, and I think crowded. I feel tethered to meager means. The map in my mind rolls up like a scroll and I start with the shallow breaths. I feel entirely too obtuse between this rock and hard place, and my perspective is lost on that magnificent mountain obscuring my view of the wide-open space.

And then it comes, this crisp swell of spacious grace – a greater grace and reality. There it is. Right on time, like manna from heaven. It fills my lungs, floods my soul, sweeps me off my feet and places me right back in the moment I was in. 

Heaven is here. Heaven is now. 

I make crazy circles, from little to large, and back again. But right now I'm small, and He can be big as He is. 

So, that’s it.  I decide, I’m not waiting for ‘real’ life to begin… to get easier… to be kind. What is that, anyway? I have waited and have found that life does not wait for me. It happens, is happening, will carry on with no regard for my position or petitions.

By noon I hang rung-out clothes on the line. I spend my energy to save a little. I stack folded towels high, where sticky paws cannot reach to topple. I catch a glimpse of my frizzy hair, bangs swept along a perspiring brow. I’m not polished, or even showered. But I’m happy. Heaven has washed up onto my shore. I feel it. It’s a wave of contentment. It’s gratitude. It’s a modest minute gone regal: a careless head of hair, a sink full of grimy dishes, a storm door adorned with fingerprints and a back porch laundered with stinky diapers. 

Heaven - right here and now.

I dodge 4 cats underfoot, find budding tomatoes on the vine and rub basil leaves between my fingers while I take long, deep breaths. No more shallow breathing when the air is full of truth and your mind is clear. 

My green eyes glitter over purple berries kissed with sunshine, well on their way to becoming black and sweet. I look up to see if the birds are aware. They see from on high, perceive the ripe hour. Heaven knows all about time. 

Everything is alive and now heaven feels like goose bumps on my skin from the sun poured out over me. The Son, poured out for me. 

He’s alive now I'm alive.

The husband lingers over lunch, his name on the pocket of his work shirt; three letters, simple and stitched on his chest in blue. His hands and neck are dark with work. When he walks by, my heart still stirs. Still. I just don't always show it. His white t-shirt glows next to his skin. My busy hands look porcelain to his. 

I’m distracted with his hands. I daydream of holding them, kissing them. I do hold them, kiss them - seems just as vulnerable and intimate as the mouth. Strength and tenderness both held there. 

He is stronger than I know, has borne the brunt of many storms. More steady than I, only shaky while speaking words from the heart.

I secretly recycle a holy moment in my mind, right there, midday, over a sink of messy with my back turned. Love grows there. Respect grows there.

I've been a foolish woman at times; torn down a man who stood taller than me. Thought I could wrestle him and win. He beats me by endurance, wins me with faithfulness. I have a little strength, but I have not always wielded it wisely. I have spent it on perishing things, like worry and fear. 

He prays that I would trust more, that I would feel love, more. It’s just a few words but perfectly discerned. 

Trust more. 

Feel loved more.

I grab the last basket of laundry as the day slips between the hanging towels. It blows right through with a whisper of a breeze. I let my arms fall limp, grip the earth with my dusty feet, and allow the south wind to blow my tired hair however it pleases. 

I just go with it, in the standstill. 

I’m not moving but I feel the flight of life. And it is faithful to do what it does. It just keeps taking place.

It’s in the unassuming moments that I discover how extraordinary it all really is. The finite, it waves me onward to eternity. 

This is real life, and I’m not missing it.