I used to believe I had been given the spiritual gift of faith. Such surety at such a young age must have been a gift from the divine. I had no doubt other than self-doubt but perhaps therein lies the key. God was my deepest answer to my deepest need. I searched the scriptures for comfort. Though never sticking with any one discipline for long, I always returned. Again and again I would rededicate myself to daily prayer or daily scripture, and on rare occasions, both. Through it all, I never turned my face away, even when my disciplines were sorely lacking. God was the center of my ever-spinning world – the only stable truth.
Well, that and my fears.
I did not realize my spiritual gift had an expiration date. I even had my certainty tattooed on my back: “to the marrow of my bones.” Maybe that sense of certainty positioned me for living in uncertainty, acting as a protective factor. The fears have always been there, as real as the faith which grounded me and protected me from more visible darkness.
The fears have always been there, but now they must be faced. Faced, or I cannot go on. They have hidden in the shadows, some visible and others completely obscured by the shadowy mix of dark and light. The artful work of an illusionist, my life becomes a picture I cannot trust. I do not know what is true and what is truth obscured.
The illusion of certainty held me centered, allowed me no choice but to turn and kneel again and again, so what happens when the binding untethers?
For months, or maybe years, the strength of my spiritual experiences had been waning. The irony of having just completed a master’s degree in spiritual formation and feeling spiritually adrift was not lost on me. Here I sat, on the other side of a major accomplishment, with a master’s degree in Spiritual Formation, and it felt as if my spiritual life was crumbling to dust and blowing out of my hands. I felt helpless, like all I could do was watch. Every spiritual practice I attempted felt empty and this emptiness carried the weight of despair. If these practices could not breathe life into my spirit, then all was hopeless.
“Surely, it’s just exhaustion,” I reasoned, and waited for the energy to return. I went through the motions of life, sometimes feeling okay and other times not.
I saw my nighttime routine getting worse and made only a vague connection between that and my spiritual state. I could look back at the beginning of my degree program when I was able to release so many fears and was frustrated with myself for not having enough faith, not trusting God enough, not seeking God enough, and feeling so imprisoned by my routines.
In late December 2019, I sat at the edge of my bed, lit three candles, wrapped myself in my prayer shawl, and sat in the emptiness. I had nothing left but this last-ditch attempt to put myself back on the road to spiritual recovery.
For two nights in a row I sat like this. Candles lit. Covered in a prayer shawl. Completely empty. I longed to feel the presence of God, but each evening exhaustion quickly overtook me until all that was left was to lay down and sleep. Thirty minutes. Two nights in a row. I slept in the presence of burning candles.
I do not recall sensing God in these two evenings, but as someone recently told me, “sometimes the most holy thing you can do is take a nap.”
I stood, peering in the bathroom mirror, and word of freedom came as a whisper on the wind, “this is not your fault.” The words came in a manner typical of the presence of God with light airiness and an embrace that holds my weight and gives me space to exhale.
Decades old chains fall in the presence of such simple words.
I never completely understood why my life felt so heavy. My unnamed inner battle often left me exhausted and aching. Objectively, I never thought my life should hurt as much as it did. There seemed a disconnect between the external circumstances of my life and the intensity of my struggle. Realizing my brain has always sent me distress signals where no real danger exists, made space for those simple words, “this is not your fault.”
And with those words, my world grew bigger and brighter, and for a moment, the way forward looked clear and light – just for a moment.
“I think I have to stop praying prayers of protection over the people I love,” I told first myself. Realizing I pray these prayers not because I trust God but because deep down, I do not, in an act of surrender and trust, I released those I love into the arms of God and told Him He would have to care for my loved ones. I needed to stop trying to control outcomes with my prayers. Amid unseen #OCDpatterns, my prayers were compulsions, and the compulsions had to stop if I wanted to get healthy.
For the first time perhaps since my children were born, I did not pray over my children at night. My brain in hyperdrive, rewriting my life and consuming as much #OCD information as possible, sleep is illusive. I put Lauren Daigle’s song, Rescue, on repeat, and lay my head down to rest.
Somewhere between consciousness and unconsciousness, I sense the presence of the Divine, moving in as a cloud, thick and close, bringing the familiar comfort which whispers “all is well.” Sitting up, I wonder, “how can this be? I did not pray for this.” I am suddenly aware just how much I believed God’s presence and care for me depending on me. Knowing I have always struggled with the balance of grace and effort, I see now how little I have relied upon grace.
Wrapped in the comfort of God’s presence, relieved to find God’s grace more sufficient than I had hoped, eventually I went to sleep.
Nearly five months have passed, and that was the last time I felt the strong assurance of God’s presence with me. I had no idea how much my spiritual life would have to change for me to enter a new land of freedom.
Night after night for months, gripped by a loss I have not yet processed, I bolt awake just before sleep, and my chest feels tight and cold. Terror looms and taunts me as I grasp for reassurance, a small semblance of the presence of the Divine.
But none comes.
This emptiness drills a hole deep into the marrow of my bones as I enter a land of faith which relies more on hope than on certainty. It is a double-edged weapon, one which mocks my faith in a God I can no longer sense while chiding me for my diminished engagement with this same God.
In almost a hiss, the wordless feelings whisper, “God is not real. You are all alone. He has never been here, and you have been a fool. Worse than a fool, you have abandoned Him. You no longer seek Him as you once did. You are failing. You have failed. There is no way out. All is hopeless. All is lost.”
“Maybe,” comes my weak response as I accept the uncertainty of the moment.
Instead of running, cowering, or grasping, I sit with the feelings. In the dark silence of the night, I open myself to the fullness of the experience of the moment. I feel the pain and make no attempt to distract myself. Until the feelings subside, I sit there. Instead of arguing with the voice of my fear, I make space for them to show me the fullness of their warnings.
Learning to embrace a faith more reliant on hope than certainty, I chose to stay. Stay with the moment.
Stay with my God. Stay with my hope.
It may not seem like much, but today, it is enough.
Until next time, may God hold us close in both darkness and light,
Jen
(This post is part three of my foundational OCD story. Here is part one: Waking Up to OCD and part two: Seeing My OCD Pattern)
The stories and meanings here are my own stories and my own experiences. While I do hope they help you on your own journey, they are not therapy or a replacement for therapy. I am not a therapist, and nothing here should be used as a replacement for professional services.
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