Miserere

PSALM 51

Ekphrasis of Miserere (ie: description/reaction to this piece of music)

Lent. Normally in the season before Easter which, in the church calendar, is a time of repentance, contemplation, and fasting, I implement some meaningful action or forgo a habit to replace it with more prayer or something equally pious. This year, because of a stressful job ending in chaos, Lent arrived before I had a chance to even think of anything to do to observe the season. I realized after a few days of frantically trying to come up with an idea, that I was not going to "do" anything this year.

I'm spent. I'm beat. I'm tired of looking for jobs, talking about jobs, telling people about my interviews or lack thereof, fielding endless questions about what my plans are, tolerating even more suggestions as to what I should do next. I'm tired of dredging up the courage to face people, to put on a brave face, to keep hoping, and I'm scared of facing my disappointment and worse, the disappointment of everyone else on top of my own. I'm angry and discouraged to the depths of my soul.

It's not even about the job anymore. Part of me feels numb to the idea of getting "a good job." What does that even mean to me anymore and why should I care? It seems like a mirage, something unattainable, and even if I did attain it, would it even be worth all this struggle?

But it's not about the job anymore.

I used to see visions of God smiling at me, a calm, loving smile. One that said, "I see you, and approve." I used to be certain of his presence, confident that He hears my prayers and cares about my plights. We'd share laughs and delight in beautiful things together. He'd discipline me and teach me and fill my heart to swelling with assurances of his grace.

I was sure I could trust Him.

It's hard to have dozens of people remind me weekly of the numerous prayers they are praying on my behalf. They sound so sure and hopeful. I want to be hopeful that God has a plan; that all the disappointment, grief, shame, anger, will not have the last word.

Desert: God has felt nonexistent. Or there, but turning a blind eye to the large bear trap clamped around my ankle, deaf to my screams of agony.

Ocean: God has ebbed and flowed, in and out, of my heart and mind as palpable as the sound, smell, sight, of the waves lapping against the shore. Or crashing, bent on destruction amid a raging storm, taking with it whole vessels and their hope of salvation to the depths of the sea.

Forest: God's stillness, moving gently through the pillars I have erected to keep what little I have left standing, standing.

Mountain: Where does my help come from? Not the mountains. Not the armies. Not a job. Not my attempts to fix things. Not even my strength to bear up under the weight of the mountain avalanching over my head.

Home: My help comes from the Lord. I can't fight anymore. I am broken.

But I choose hope.

Create in me a pure heart, O God,
and renew a steadfast spirit within me.
Do not cast me from your presence
or take your Holy Spirit from me.
Restore to me the joy of your salvation
and grant me a willing spirit, to sustain me.
My sacrifice, O God, is a broken spirit;
a broken and contrite heart
you, God, will not despise.