“I’m sure it was a sight to see. But, we knew the truth. We were more alike than eyes could meet.”
“This weekend, I wiggled down into the pit. I wallowed in the mud and grime and gently leaned on the dirt covered walls. I met a friend in that dark, lonely pit; shared some crackers, cheese, bananas and tomatoes.
The dreariness was gone for those moments. The shallow pit of despair, with its cramped confined quarters, seemed lighter. There, on the sidewalk, we sat; one cleaned and showered, the other filth covered and slightly able to peer through his shame. I’m sure it was a sight to see. But, we knew the truth. We were more alike than eyes could meet.
At some point, I confessed. I slowly leaned closer and whispered, “me too.”
Through his shame, he shared his story: loss of health, loss of work, loss of home, loss of family, loss of… hope. I listened to my new friend. Together, we sat in the pit together as he shared. At some point, I confessed. I slowly leaned closer and whispered, “me too.” I’d been rejected a time or two. I’ve lost a home. I’ve sat in my driveway and sold my children’s belongings. I know it’s hard. I’ve been separated, confused about what would become of my family. I’ve lost a son of whom I was entrusted to protect. I’ve fallen so many times, I believe I’ve lost count.
“Look around. Do you see all those people walking by? I know they look normal; like they have it all together. But, most of them are in their own little pit just like you.”
Yep, I’ve been in the pit before. I’m there now. But today, I’m here for you. I’ve crawled down here to tell you that you’re not alone. You’re not forgotten. Look around. Do you see all those people walking by? I know they look normal; like they have it all together. But, most of them are in their own little pit just like you. They’re barely making it, wondering if there’s an end to their hopeless situation.
“I’m going to keep walking because I remember when He lifted me up from the miry clay all those many times before.”
The only difference is that they continue to put one foot in front of the other. Why? Because they remember. They remember a time when they felt hopeless; a time when relief seemed like it would never come. But, they kept walking; slowly placing one foot in front of the next. That’s what I’m doing. I’m going to keep walking; not because the future looks bright. Far from it. I’m going to keep walking because I remember when He lifted me up from the miry clay all those many times before. He replaced my hopelessness with a hope I could barely comprehend and gave me beauty for ashes that I knew I didn’t deserve. My friend, get up. Try to remember. Try to remember the time you’d wake in the morning, shower, and spend the day roofing houses. Do you remember? Try to remember the man that proudly provided for his family. Now, remember that you’re still that man… with or without the stuff and God loves you all the same. He’s waiting for you, you know? He’s been here all along. But, it’s time to get up. You can do it. Slowly place one foot in front of the other. Just remember.
“You are still the same person regardless of your losses. Your worth has not changed. You are not defined by your circumstances. You are valued. Your input matters and you are needed in the game of life.”
As I got up and left my new friend there on the sidewalk, I couldn’t help but wonder how many times he was going to hear those words that day. Once, twice, maybe three? I don’t know. But, something told me that he hadn’t heard those words in a long time. If that’s you, I want to tell you that you’re not alone. You are still the same person regardless of your losses. Your worth has not changed. You are not defined by your circumstances. You are valued. Your input matters and you are needed in the game of life. It’s time to get up. It will feel awkward, perhaps a little shaky. Just keep moving. Slowly place one foot in front of the other. He’s waiting for you. He’s waiting to replace your ashes for beauty and grant you incomprehensible hope.”
I wrote this many, many days ago, and I can tell you I’m still getting up… and that’s perfectly okay. I’ve learned that getting up is a process. Learning to walk again doesn’t happen instantaneously. But, God counts the crawls, and the weak, shaky steps. They all count. There’s HOPE.
xoxo,
Rachel
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