Prelude to a Pit: A Soft Place to Land

**Just getting started? Head back to day 1 of Prelude to a Pit: Just Another Day to read from the beginning**

It's a Friday at 1:45pm.  My hope dissolves.

Lord, please don't leave me.

~~~

I feel like I'm sinking.  Down, down, down.  Like quicksand, dense and deep.

There's pizza on my breath and the hypnotic whirr of the car motor beneath me.  

It feels like my efforts were nil.  I had fought and lost, I thought, hanging my head in shame.

The phone call had been a concrete memorial of the life I once knew, dark and eerie as a mausoleum.

But my mother, awash in the darkness in the front seat, raises her left arm, placing her hand on the roof of the car.

"You are still good," she says firmly.

Tears well in my eyes, and the cross on my back chafes me, reminding me of its presence.  

But I look at her hand, tapping the ceiling, and for a moment, I push away the mourning to see.

"Yes, He is," I affirmed.

Had I forgotten?  Surely not.  This isn't quicksand my feet are set upon.

Momentarily, I'm filled with courage and pride.  Pride of the One who doesn't let me down.  Who promises good in the face of extraordinary evil.  Who makes man out of dust and a universe out of nothing.

He is where my feet are.

Not sand.  A Rock.  A firm foundation that holds fast to my soul when I'm drowning in fear and doubt.

He is the reason I'm going through this time. And He is the reason I am surviving this time.

He saves, Oh my!  He saves when you reach for his hand in the deep waters.  He saves.

My circumstances are not good.  I can see that, even from a distance, if I could manage to tear myself from its grip for just a second.

But my God.  My Savior.  Oh, how He is good.  The Light in my darkness.  The dancing when I mourn.  The life to my soul.

I'm not drowning.  I'm not sinking, save for how I sink into His presence, His love, His faithfulness.

I smile, though I was sure I'd forgotten how.

Goodness doesn't always come how we think it will.  It comes in beauty, in truth, in love.  But it also comes in trials that urge us to persevere, in pruning that makes us grow, in a cross that crucified our sin.

Goodness, me.

Did I forget?  No.

He is good.  He is good.

**Tune in tomorrow night when it all ties together...**

Prelude to a Pit: Here Comes Goodbye

**Just getting started? Head back to day 1 of Prelude to a Pit: Just Another Day to read from the beginning**

It's a Saturday afternoon.  The walls are closing in on me.

Lord, You can't still be here!

~~~~

It was what I had wanted.

I was home more with my daughter, working toward being a stay-at-home mom one day.

We'd play tea party and sing along to her favorite cartoons and snuggle before naptime.  

My favorite days involved a Hobby Lobby outing.  With glee, I'd rummage the aisles for hidden gems and potential house projects.  Scrapbook paper to cover the outlets.  Paint for the side tables.  Burlap for curtains.  Fabrics in inviting hues to warm the windows.  Countless sprigs of greenery and sprouts of flowers that cozied the kitchen and living room with pinks and purples.

All the while, I'm frantically feeding Harlow pretzels from a full-sized Kroger bag, praying she doesn't have a pre-nap meltdown in the picture frame aisle.

It was simple, but exactly what I wanted.

Not the stuff that accumulated, but the life that reverberated in those ordinary Wednesdays or Mondays.

The warm air would kiss our cheeks as we raced like rabbits with our loaded down shopping cart that clickety-clacked to the car.  Harlow giggles and then whines as I strap her into the car but hushes when the sound of Doc McStuffins returns to her DVD player with the turn of the ignition.

Happy memories.  Perfect.  Pleasant.

I don't want to have to say goodbye.

But as the air turns cold and the days are dark, even at four o'clock, the shadow of change descends upon us.

God said, Let go, and I said no.

I held fast to what I knew was good and whole and perfect.  To the Hobby Lobby memories and the singalongs in the car.

To the sunny walks through the neighborhood and the planting of new things in the yard.

To the smell of new paint on the walls and fresh sheets on the bed.  To the bark of the dogs as they escaped to the backyard.  To the life that I had established.  To the contentedness I felt.

Let go, He said.

I don't want to have to say goodbye.

This isn't how I wanted things.  I didn't picture it this way.

Lay it all down, He said.

Sacrifice.  Not giving up what's extra and unnecessary.  Not giving up what you wouldn't miss.

No.  It's prying your grip from what matters to your heart.  And when you feel you've given enough, He says, 

more.

It isn't sacrifice until it hurts.  Deeply.

I need this, I say.  But He's firm.  There's no way out.

Lay it all down, He says.

And with yelling and screaming, my knuckles white with fight still left in them, I open fast my clutch, and it all falls to His feet.  It never belonged to me anyway.  But it had become part of me, sewn to my soul.  A familiarity that comforted.

But I'm not left with nothing.  His glorious hand upon my back, He guides my worn frame to a pile.

It isn't from Hobby Lobby.  It's not pretty and pink.  It doesn't provide a sweet aroma of welcome.

It's a cross.  And it's splintered.  And heavy.

Pick it up, Chels, He says.

I look at Him sadly, and He raises my chin, lifting my face to the sky.

You've talked your talk, He says with firm gentleness.  Now it's time to pick up your cross.  And walk.

I said I would.  I promised I would on my knees when I was six.  But you hope He won't ever think to ask of you.  You pray He asks it of someone else.  And when He does, it all becomes real.  The faith becomes real.  The God that sits two-dimensional on a page of Scripture comes forth.  He isn't just the God of Abraham and Jacob and Isaac.  He isn't just the God of Elijah and Joseph and Job.

He is your God.  And He is my God.

And you won't feel the real until you sacrifice the complacency.

The cross He hung on was real.  And the one He asks us to carry as we follow Him is just as real.  And it's a death, to selfish dreams and wills and hopes.  A dying to yourself.

Nailing all of the easy life to the wood and watching it lose its breath is necessary--necessary--

if you are who you say you are.

So long, Hobby Lobby.

Here comes goodbye. 

**Tune in tomorrow night at 7 pm for the final day of Prelude to a Pit: A Soft Place to Land**

Prelude to a Pit: Every Hour

**Just getting started? Head back to day 1 of Prelude to a Pit: Just Another Day to read from the beginning**

It's every weeknight at 5 pm. The tears won't stop.

Lord, where are You?

~~~

Tick-tock, tick-tock.

The clock strikes one.  Sleep eludes me for the fifth...sixth...seventh night in a row now?

I clamp my eyes closed with intense fervor, pretending that if I can't see my life as it is right now, it won't exist.

Come on, sleep.  Wash over me with your heaviness.  Fall upon me.

But the emptiness calls to me like a ghost in the night.  The memories of what was and what is slither like a snake into my ever-running mind.

If I could only stop thinking.  Stop.  Stop. Stop it.

My pillow drowns without rescue in a thick downpour of my tears.  Lord, I need You.  For the rest of this hour, I need You.

I had learned that taking things day by day was not enough.  It was now hour by hour, minute by minute that I had to ask the Lord for His strength, for another breath, the will to move my jaws and swallow what tiny morsel of food that was forced in front of me.

Did I drink water today?  I can't remember.

Lord, I need You.

Tick-tock, tick-tock.

The clock strikes three.  The hour I dread most is drawing near.  I pray for the clock to slow down because I'm running out of time.  There's not enough time.  I'm losing.  I'm drowning.

A chill in the house comes over me.  I yank a sweater over my head.  It doesn't catch on my hand like it used to.

It's baggy.  My bones are showing themselves, proclaiming to the world my misery.

Lord, I need You.

Tick-tock, tick-tock.

The clock strikes five.

It's here again.  I breathe fast and realize the need for escape.  Harlow smiles at me with macaroni and cheese painted artistically across her soft cheeks.  She smiles at me and says, "Mommy," because she sees the sadness in my eyes.

She knows.  How does she know?  She's too little.  How could she understand?  How will I tell her?

But she's seen Mommy cry more than I care to admit because I just can't--I can't--as hard as I've tried, I can't hold the tears in until she's sleeping peacefully in her room.

And the tears drip apologetically down my face as I smile back at her, singing a silly song to soothe her.

I dry my eyes and wipe her face and pick her up with haste, as if we're on the run.

We are.  We run from the time.  From the significance of this hour.  Where we'll go, I'm not sure.

Lord, I need You, I whisper.  I need You for this hour.

And the next.

Every hour, Lord.

Every hour.

**Tune in tomorrow night at 7 pm for day 5 of Prelude to a Pit: Here Comes Goodbye**

Prelude to a Pit: A Question Mark

**Just getting started? Head back to day 1 of Prelude to a Pit: Just Another Day to read from the beginning**

It's a Sunday afternoon.  I swallow hard.

Lord, where are You?

~~~~

"Always ask questions," my mother would tell me as I grew up.  "It lets people know that you're interested in them, not just yourself."

I can fire off questions like nobody's business, but today, I'm told not to.

No questions.  Be quiet.  Listen.

I realize almost instantly how hard of a habit this is to break because all my mouth wants to form are questions.  They leap from my throat, and my tongue fights them back to keep them from reaching my lips and the outside world.

Steady, steady, I tell myself.

Today, questions are the enemy, and I've got to do everything I can to fight.  So I sit and fight silently.

It's gotten colder, I notice.  The breeze has picked up.  The quiet is oppressing my soul.  On the outside, I'm calm, frozen.

But inside, I'm dying.  Dying.

I'm thankful for Harlow's talkativeness today because it's distracting in a good way.  I chase her and sit, exhausted from the lack of sleep and long plane ride.  The TV provides a respite for my nerves and my energy, as she pauses to become enraptured with Tinkerbell and her fairy friends.

I'm waiting.  Quietly.

And then I hear it.  My worst fear.  It's subtle.  But today I'm tuned into every nuance, every slight change, looking for hints and answers to the questions I can't ask.

Zzzzzzziiiiiiiiiiippppppp.

I bite my lip and hear my heart crack.  I want to ask, but why?

Don't I already know?

Harlow's attention span shifts, and she's now scooting Tupperware across the kitchen floor, slamming cabinet doors along the way.

The clickety clack over the hardwood is clear enough to answer the question at the front of my mind.

I'm still when it's over, bursting forth with questions and pain.  Harlow gives a whine, and I pick her up and take her to her room.  I hold her close, rocking in her chair absentmindedly, hoping she doesn't see the fear that washes over my face.  But there's worry in her little face, and it saddens me.  I comfort her between breaths of trying to comfort myself.

For the questions.  They no longer matter.

**Tune in tomorrow night at 7 pm for day 4 of Prelude to a Pit: Every Hour**

Prelude to a Pit: Chaos

**Just getting started? Head back to day 1 of Prelude to a Pit: Just Another Day to hear the story from the beginning**

It's a Saturday at 6 pm. I'm hot with anger.

Lord, where are You?

~~~

The TV was off, black and mute.  The faint smell of baked chicken lingered in the air.  The dishes waded in the sink.  I had attempted to pretty myself that day after a few days of no sleep, but the mask of confusion and despair overshadowed what measley efforts I'd given.

My heart was thumping over a hundred times a minute.  A numbness planted in the middle of my chest swept ferociously through my veins, reaching the crown of my head, the length of each finger, and weighed my legs with profound gravitas.

My brain was saying I couldn't move, yet my lips couldn't quit protesting, first calmly but gradually building with passion.

The storm was here.  The bomb had dropped.

And though fresh and clean and smelling of home, the room had become a disaster site.

But my pleas were no better than shouting at the raindrops, who can't understand and only fall where the cloud drops them.

My thoughts cowered under how the future would look, how the next five minutes would look.

I didn't understand.

Why, Lord?  Why me?  Why now?  Why at all?

He doesn't answer.  And He lets the rain fall.  The thunder roar.

Just because life moves from mundane to chaos doesn't mean He has looked away or lost the reins.  He is just as much in control when the wind is raging as He is when it is quiet and gentle.  He runs the days of oppressive heat, when the clouds won't come for comfort.  He ordains the frigid days of winter, when the clouds won't relent.  He orchestrates the falling of each leaf and the blooming of each bud.

He designed it all.  Just as it should be.

And He's written the words and days of your life, just as they should be.  He knew that with the turn of a page, my life would fall down, down, down in a pit that only He knew the way out of.

Ashes that only He could beautify.

Brokenness that only He could heal.

He is sovereign.  Don't let the chaos lie to you.

Circumstances are liars like that.  They speak to the immediate and temporal.  They know only the present, and they fear doom and gloom of the future.  

Hope is absent, if you ask the chaos.

But God is silent, you say.  

Yes, I know.  He may be for quite some time.  But silence doesn't equal absence.  It doesn't equal a deaf ear.  It doesn't equal a heart that is hardened to your hurt.

He sees the chaos.  He even let it in through the door.  And He looks to see what you focus on, what you trust--the chaos?

Or the Creator?

**Tune in tomorrow night at 7 pm for day 3, Prelude to a Pit: A Question Mark**

Prelude to a Pit: Just Another Day

It's a Thursday night.  I can't breathe.

Lord, where are You?

~~~

The sun rose like it always had.  Autumn proudly adorned herself in her burnt sienna splendor.  Leaves were shouting their last hurrah in robust reds and golds before falling to their winter slumber.  Pumpkins guarded the porches of each neighbor with would-be sinister smirks.  The wind had turned cold, inviting sweaters to awaken from their summer hideouts.

It was just another day.  Nothing peculiar.

I didn't even notice the whiff of change in the air.  The foreshadowing of a dawning darkness clear across the horizon.

A storm was brewing.  But the rumbles of thunder were so faint that I could have easily mistaken them for the crawl of dining chair legs across the hardwood floor.  The raindrops were so few and far between that a blink could disguise their daintiness.

But the clouds were quickly approaching the little life I'd come to know and love.

The Lord was ushering in a test.  The stage was set.  The lights dimmed, the audience hushed.  And the spotlight hit me in front and center stage.

Unbeknownst to me, I was the star of the play, and I didn't know the lines.  Or the plot.

The Lord never waits until we're "ready" to lead us down a road of suffering and sacrifice.  We're thrust in, sink or swim.

And we kick and scream and fight saying, "Not now! I'm not ready!"  But really, would we ever be?  Is there ever an adequate time to say, "Here, Lord, I give You everything You've ever blessed me with.  It's okay.  It didn't belong to me anyway.  Bless You.  Praise You."

No, we're never prepared.  And yet--shouldn't we always be prepared?

This crazy thing called the Christian life is full of surprises, both welcome and unwelcome.  The only constant is Christ.  He is trustworthy, faithful, and good, even when the storm is fast approaching.

And we are to arm ourselves daily--hourly--with the full armor of God, so that every God-ordained bump in the road is not an opportunity to run off in the ditch but to say, "Praise You, Father, thank You for showing me that my motor of faith still works and that Your goodness flows deeper than any pitfall."

But this day.  This ordinary non-peculiar day, I wasn't ready.  I wasn't armed.

And with the crack of a lightning bolt, my ordinary became chaos.

And I was about to find out if I was who I'd said I was.  Who I'd promised I'd be.

Be armed and on the watch, friends.  Always.  

For today may be the ordinary day that changes everything.

**Tune in tomorrow at 7 pm for day 2 of Prelude to a Pit: Chaos**

Get Ready. It's About to Get Real.

I'm ready. To share my heart and my pain of what I've lived for the past several months.

And though some may think less of me for letting so many in to this precious and guarded part of my heart, it's okay. 

This is why I started this blog. Not for the ones who judge me for sharing. But for the few who are secretly hurting, too, and find a reprieve in knowing they aren't alone in what they're going through. 

So if that's you, I'm sorry that we are meeting here on such heartbreaking ground. But I am glad you're here.

Hang tight with me for the next seven days, and you'll hear it all. The pain. The hope. The lessons. 

I'll be giving a teaser each night at 7 pm for the next six nights, calling it "A Prelude to a Pit."  I hope you'll stick with me. 

And every now and then, I'll break up the monotony of my words with this sweet face...

If you haven't yet found me on Facebook, search for "An Arrow in the Making" and like the page for blog updates (and a few Christmas pics!). Or you can always follow by email by signing up here. 

So tomorrow night, it'll all unfold. It's about to get real. 

I pray I'll see you here!

Xo,

Chels