“I just think that there’s meaning in everything,” my client said a couple weeks ago. “I think God is in everything and that our days matter so much more than we could ever understand.”
Sometimes my clients help me.
Sometimes they don’t. Another client of mine has told me two times in a row that I look crazy.
Her insight is unnerving.
I cried at the doggy daycare last week.
I was petting this sweet, little dog with the most gentle eyes, and the woman behind the counter said, “You know, she’s up for adoption.”
And everything in me wanted to take her home and be her mommy.
And I looked at her eyes, so filled with hope and delight at having my attention, and I thought about how she doesn’t have a mommy, and it made me tear up.
Because her tail was wagging and her eyes were gentle but no one loves her the way I love Arlow.
How do we stay in this fight?
If I was with God, His love would feel like a hug.
If everything here, everything I love and everything I desire, is just a mere reflection of the goodness that awaits me in heaven, why wouldn’t I want to be there?
Because love chooses well. Love chooses not to abandon people, not to give up on this life that’s a gift. I know that. In my head, I know that.
But inside of me, I’m a child lost at the carnival and everyone around me is laughing and talking and eating cotton candy, and I’m standing there, terrified, with no parent’s legs to grab onto.
And does anyone see? Does anyone see how alone and scared I am? Only Him. Only heaven.
Some people think you go to hell if you kill yourself, but I think that’s dumb. It’s professing, in essence, that God’s grace is big enough to cover every sin but one.
Plus, God doesn’t fault us for being sick.
Not to mention, that black and white philosophy leaves so much unanswered. Like what about people who die from an accidental drug overdose? Do they immediately go to hell? Even though they weren’t trying to kill themselves? Even though they might believe in Jesus?
I wonder about my clients sometimes, how a loving God could send to hell a person who can’t possibly believe in Him because they hear cupboards speak to them and think Michael Jackson is preparing a palace for them to live in. How could He fault them for not believing? I don’t think He will.
I don’t think He does.
I watched my client die the other day. I went to deliver her meds, and the next thing I knew, EMTs were trying to get her heart started again.
The only coherent thing she said to me before she died? “I have to say a prayer.”
“You have to say a prayer?” I asked.
And then again, she said, “I have to say a prayer.”
My face was pressed against the couch this afternoon. Lies and truths swirling about in my head, fighting for a voice.
And then, I felt God’s gentle urging to just let it be.
“Let the lies and truths coexist for now; it’s not as important to piece them apart as it feels. The real issue at hand is: Who are you?
When it’s just you and the couch, when all your relationships could fall away and it would just be you standing alone, apart from who loves you and who doesn’t, apart from where you belong and where you don’t, apart from what someone thinks of you or if they think of you at all, who are you?”
I am Yours, I am Yours, I am Yours.
Whenever I need a hug, I watch Narnia.
There’s just something about Aslan. The eyes, the laugh, the roar.
They remind me of home.
I don’t know how to do this.