I have two hours before I have to leave to go to the shop and get the last of my shop, and hand over my keys.
The hub and the sub are sleeping, the kiddo is at school, and my mom is napping. So it’s just the next two hours pretty much by myself.
I don’t mind solitude, traditionally. With a crowded house and a crowded life, it is so hard to get a minute alone that they are usually welcomed. But not today. Today, I don’t want to be alone. I don’t want to do this. I don’t want to say goodbye. I’ve so fervently wanted not to say goodbye that I took it to the enth degree (See yesterday’s post The Cage and The Cocoon).
And yet goodbye has come, despite all my efforts to prolong it and avoid closure at all costs.
This is the day where I have to say it anyway. Where I have to choose that my life will no longer be dictated by my grief, even as it is naturally still a part of the life that lays in front of me. But I can’t let grief run and control my life anymore.
When I was little, my parents used to tell me a parable-type story about a pearl necklace. In the story, there was a little girl who had a special necklace made of fake pearls, that her Daddy had given her. Even though it was fake, she loved the necklace desperately, and it was her most prized possession. One day she told her Daddy that she loved him more than anything and told him she wanted to give him a present: anything that was hers, she would give him. He asked for her pearl necklace. The little girl was stunned and offered him anything else, her favorite teddy bear, her favorite book, but her Daddy simply said “That’s okay sweetie.” and didn’t accept any of them. The next day, the little girl came into her Daddy’s room, quietly crying and holding out her fake pearl necklace, the thing she loved most, and she put it in his hands. He gave her a hug, and opened the drawer of his dresser and pulled out a box, from a fancy jewelry shop. Upon opening it the little girl gasped: it was a pearl necklace far more beautiful than the one she had given up, with real pearls and a fine gold chain.
Sometimes we have to give up something that we desperately love, because there is something far better waiting for us on the other side of it. But that’s the catch, the leap of faith: We don’t know for sure. From our perspective, we are giving something up, not getting something better. All we see is the loss.
I’m giving up a lot, all disguised as a business. Friendships, passion, the first career or job I’ve genuinely felt talented at. Not to mention the aforementioned 2 year long funeral (The Cage and The Cocoon. Seriously, check it out, if only for the guitar solo). I’m giving up so many things, and any would have been a striking blow even on their own.
But I can’t see what is on the other side of that exchange. Before that leap of faith is taken, you don’t get to see what is on the other side of it: otherwise, it wouldn’t be a leap of faith. The not knowing is the beauty of it. The not knowing is what makes it a sacrifice, what makes it about faith. I truly believe that God has something more planned for me. But if I want it, I have to trust Him enough to give up the fake pearls in my life, to give up my faulty opinions of what is best for me and actually consider His ideas on the matter, for a change.
I am a Christian, yet among them, I am the Doubting Thomas. I need to put my hand into the wound. I need to KNOW. Taking things on faith alone is a huge leap for me, and has been my whole life.
God knows that. And I know that He wouldn’t ask this sacrifice of me if there was not something amazing waiting on the other side of it.
So… this is me, crying and clinging to the fake pearls, even as I hand them over.
God, I can’t wait to see what You have in store for me after this. And I actually do, reluctantly and with great fear, give this over to You. You know what I need better than I do. You were right. You win. I’ll put down my Axe of Doubt and surrender.
Your will. Not mine.