The Sand In The Oyster

Most of the time when I write a blog post I end up finding out more about myself, life, how my heart works, how life works, etc., so I desperately hope that is the case again tonight. Maybe this will just end up in my giant scrape pile of blog posts that had one good paragraph and no resolution that never make it. I never know unless I try, so here goes. 

I learned about oysters this last week. Oysters with pearls inside of them, to be specific. When you do science with a six-year-old girl, the pearl part is important. And maybe for twenty-something-year-olds, too, because I found myself thinking about the pearl making process a lot for the rest of the week. 

See, pearls come from pain. A grain of sand gets inside the oyster and in an attempt to make the pain go away, they end up making a pearl. I’m not a huge science fan so I’m not going to outline the process. If you’re really curious, google it; for me, the important part is that the pearl is made. Something that caused discomfort, something that hurt the inside of the clam, is turned into something that is breathtakingly beautiful. 

I don’t know about you, but I’ve had pain in my life. I’ve had little grains of sand sneak into my heart and it hurts. Sometimes it feels like an entire bucketful of beach has been launched at me and everything hurts and I can’t breathe and my one thought is, “God, there’s no way You can make this into something beautiful.” 

Because, guys, growing up with an autoimmune disease that breaks down your body before you’re even a teenager sucks. Moving to the other side of the world when you’re 15 is terrifying, and always feeling like you’re too far away from the people you love the most is a type of feeling I know so well. Wanting to be married and have your own babies is a real desire, but one you can’t just carry out on your own. It hurts being so aware of the flaws and weaknesses of your heart and trying to forgive yourself for, once again, doing the things that you promised you never would, never again. 

Sand.

Sand.

Sand.

It’s all over in my heart and I don’t like it. “Where’s the beauty?!” I ask. “Where’s the good thing that comes from this hard situation that You promised?” And maybe if I stopped crying for a minute I would hear Him whisper so quietly into my ear, “My love, it’s right there.” 

Right. There. 

Because, guys, I’m not who I used to be. I’m so far from perfect, but if only you knew the way my heart used to fly around, grasping at every little thing, hiding from the light and running wild in fear, you would know that the tangled mess of weeds is a little less prickly. A little. 

Maybe I forget about the word “process” and its meaning. Processes aren’t instantaneous. You can’t start a process and see immediate results, it’s the steady day in and day out of saying yes, of reminding myself that if God was faithful before, He’ll be faithful again and I’m so safe with Him. I look beside me and sure enough, He’s still there. 

“Aren’t you tired of this yet?” I ask, tears streaming down my face as I realize the thing that I thought was dead is still very much alive and roaring with a ferocious appetite inside of me. “This ugly beast has gotten the better of me again.” 

“But look at this!” He points to the very center of my heart and I can’t even see what He sees. I can’t see it, because I’m sure that the ugly, the broken, the dirty, the sand, is all there is to see. “I see the beauty.” 

He sees my beauty. When? Where? I mean, sure I see the tiny baby steps but what about the great expanses inside of me yet to be dealt with? It’s like entire black holes of failures and misguided intentions and flashes of passion that end in regret that are just waiting to spill out of me. 

“You remember this grain of sand?” He reminds me, gently. So, so gently. 

And I do, because it was one of the most painful ones, where I was snatched from my home and planted in a place I was determined to hate, and then I watched as my friends turned their backs on me, one by one, breaking every tiny shred in my heart that I had left. I’ll never forget the way it hurt to wake up and open my eyes, to walk down the street, to eat food and engage in conversations. 

But it’s not a piece of sand anymore. It’s one of my biggest pearls. I look back and in between the dark days of hating life and screaming into my pillow, I see the brilliant love of God carrying me through everything. I can’t deny it, the way He fixed my broken pieces. I learned how to dance again. I could smile and laugh and just breathe. He did that. He’s still doing that. 

Tireless.

Faithful.

Committed. 

Why does He come so close to me? I think about that sometimes. Why is He so happy to be with me? I mean, sometimes I’m alright. And by alright, I mean that I’ve done all that I was supposed to and now I feel like I’m good enough, but not really, because… really? Am I still trying to pull that card? Still reverting to my old ways of striving for perfection before I ask God to notice me? *sigh* Like I said, the deeply rooted weed patch is still very present in my life. 

It’s hard for me to look at the smile on His face as he asks to see more of my heart. “It’s ugly in there!” I argue, as if I’m not talking to The One who created every star in every galaxy and can easily see my poorly hidden secrets. Yet He asks anyways, and like an idiot, I think that maybe I’m just too far gone for Him. Maybe this part of me is unredeemable. The cracks go from my head to my toes and surely that’s too much? 

“Never, my love.”

And He’s smiling again. Why? WHY?!? I’m not… 

“Shhhh…”

And the light of His face is the most powerful thing in all of creation and He shines it on the brokenness that is my heart and nothing can stand against Him. Every chain that held me back, every lie that sucked the life out of me, every bent desire and faulty view of God can be— will be — fixed. Every day it’s fixed a little more, as much as I say yes to. Every day He asks to work on me. Not because He’s impatient to rid me of my flaws, but because He sees the beauty of what is yet to come. I can’t see what He sees because it’s not all there yet. 

But it will be. 

One day. 

Because, guys, when God says He’s going to complete what He started in you, He means it. Not in a rough, “let’s get this over with” way, like a parent trying to bathe an unruly child, but like a steady companion in this journey of life.  “I’m with you,” He says. “Always. Everywhere you go, I’m with you, and I will never leave you to face those broken parts of your heart alone. I know they seem overwhelming, but they don’t overwhelm me. Yeah, you have cracks from the top of your head to the bottoms of your feet and there are black holes of darkness waiting to spill out of you, but I already know them, and I’m here to turn them into beauty. I can fill you with lightening slices of wonder and galaxies of grace and warm embraces of mercy. Let me fill you with beauty. Let me turn these grains of sand into pearls.” 

It’s the invitation that I’m sometimes the most reluctant to accept, but why? Isn’t He like the father in the prodigal son who ran to embrace his wayward child and rejoice over him even as he smelled like pigs and famine and who knows how many days on the road? Does famine have a smell? All I know is that if God can see every single particle of my being, see my end from the beginning, see the depths of my weaknesses and still have an overwhelming ocean of love for me, then saying yes to His invitation is the only thing to do. 

But refiners fire?

Yes.

But north winds on my garden?

Yes.

But the world hating me?

Yes. Because, do you see this pearl? This is the pearl that came from learning that God is faithful despite a very bitter situation that made me want to spit everything out of my mouth and drink the comforts of the world. I poured myself out before Him, gave up everything and opened myself up until I was completely bare before Him. I learned that only He satisfies. Only He can take the mess that is me and turn me into something beautiful, something filled with light. He is a faithful God and who I am doesn’t scare Him. My hurts are not too much for Him to turn into something beautiful. 

Well, here I am; at the end of my post. Maybe someone else needed to also be reminded they they are not too much. Your sin is not too much. Your hurts and grains of sand are not too much. What you’re feeling is not too much. He doesn’t look at you (at me) with weariness and a sigh, because He doesn’t see me with the same eyes that I see myself. When I look at myself I sigh. When I look at myself I shake my head. I see weeds and stubborn thorns, but God sees the tiny buds that are popping up, putting down roots and soaking up the water in the soil of my life. He sees what I cannot, and He smiles at me. Perhaps we should smile, too, because this is a process, and it’s long, but it’s not hopeless and it’s not unto nothing. Right now I feel sand, but one day I’ll see pearls because God is faithful. Every time. 

I feel colors.

The thing about being a deep feeler is that you feel things deeply. Like, way down in the pit of your heart where you don’t want to feel things because it’s just a little too much. Loss. Anger. Loneliness. Love. Heartbreak. It’s all right there, so close, so deep, and you have to feel it. You have to breathe through the mask of whatever emotion it is you’re feeling. The world around you is suddenly bathed in some kind of color and it’s all you can see, all you can taste, all you can feel. 

Feel.   

Sometimes I feel things red. Red, like the blood that pumps through my veins. It’s bright and stains against White so that everyone can see it. Unrequited love. Passion. Dreams that I’ve cradled against my heart since the day they were born. This color spreads and reaches far, sometimes farther than I wish. It touches untamed places of my heart and I struggle to keep it under control, but sometimes Red is too much for me. Small doses, pinpricks on my skin, these are fine, I am stronger than that. But when the knife tears down my skin and all is laid bare and Redcovers me from head to toe… I cannot manage those feelings. Red makes me stare at the sky and wonder about the beauty of stars, it makes me dance when I should be walking, and it breaks me into pieces when I have no reason to be broken at all; except that I am red now. I am red and pain and everything hurts. 

Sometimes I feel things blue. It’s cool and steady, heavy along the back of my spine and I feel it trace its way through my bones. These are tears. Heavy ocean waves of grief. Cold shadows of my past, my memories that sink into me when I’m unguarded. Blue takes my breath away. Sometimes the blue makes me feel like I can fly with the way it pulls me up into the velvet sky of what used to be and how lovely it all was, but then my wings are ripped from my shoulders and I plummet down, down, down, into the icy depths of loneliness. It’s the regrets that nag at my mind, and the “what if’s” and the “goodbyes” that are outlined in diamond tears and wrapped up in navy-colored silk. Blue is my blanket when “right now” feels empty and unknown. It makes me slow, but sometimes slowing down is important. He is my wise old friend who remembers with me, cries with me, then stays always a step behind me. Sometimes I need Blue to be close, and sometimes he is too close.  

Sometimes I feel things green. It’s there, an itch that fights inside my mind and my heart. It feels like a weed growing up and around my gut, sucking life and twisting tightly until I’m all shriveled and dry. She comes to me on my wild days. I can’t fight her. She’s temptation that will not be denied and she is envy that makes me blind to every good thing in my hand. I’m shoved deep into a forest of shadows and I run and I run and I run, but no matter how fast and how far I run, I never find the edge. I blow about on every wind and I know that I am nothing more than chaff when Green is in control. Spending nights with her are sleepless and long. Green is my enemy. 

Sometimes I feel things purple. The way I hold my head high and walk with confidence and know that I am loved and accepted. Purple is rare. I treasure Purple. I wrap her around me like a cape and adorn myself like a queen. But Purple is fickle. One day she will come with the beauty of my heart, the clear thoughts of truth and gentleness of spirit. Other days I find her when my outward appearance pleases my reflection and I know that eyes will turn towards me. I struggle to consistently identify Purple rightly. Sometimes I’m sure it is her, when really it is a fleeting trick of the eye that leaves my heart pricked and sore. Sometimes I shut her out, proclaiming I do not deserve her. “Leave me!” I cry at her. “I’m not worthy of Purple!” I list the names of those who know and exude Purple and I wish I was them. Then I realize that I can be; I can choose Purple. Purple can be constant, her different hues shining in the different flickers of light, but she can always be with me. 

Sometimes I feel things yellow. Soft. Delicate. Whimsical. Pretty. I find the warmth under my feet as I tiptoe through patches of sunlight, and I feel it all the way in the center of my being with the smiles, the laughter, the golden sunsets and lilting melodies. Maybe that’s why my favorite sound is my best friend’s laugh; because it’s pure yellow. Yellow makes me swallow sweetness and fills me with the purity of babies snuggled against my chest, small children reaching for my hand, a dear friend telling me that they thought of me, and a song that shakes every shadow and cobwebs from my insides. Sometimes I think I might break Yellow, or lose her forever. Sometimes she mixes with Blue in an overwhelming feeling of pain and joy that I can’t talk past the lump in my throat or see through the happy tears in my eyes. She lights up memories like stars in the dark, reminding me that some things are so yellow, so bright, so perfect and brilliant that even time will never cause them to fade. I love Yellow. I can’t make her come, but I can find her when others can’t if I put my mind to it. She’s quiet, like a secret, but a happy secret that takes joy in being discovered. 

Sometimes I feel things orange. The rush, the busy, the push, the pull, the “what in the world?”, and “how on earth?” Orange eats me up from the inside out. Devours me, taunts me, ridicules me. Be faster, he whispers. Be better, he jeers. Go, go, go. Orange is a liar. Orange is a frantic frenzy to everything he touches. He lights up the accomplishments of others and pulls my eyes away from who I am to who they are, and suddenly I am no longer purple; I am not good enough. I stay up until two am with Orange, not for the chats, but with the tossing and the turning, the double-checking and the second-guessing. When he comes, I must be perfect, and if I fail, he glares in my face until it’s all I see. I don’t see my purple, or yellow, or red, or blue, I’m just a failure and surely it is all I will ever be. He has a tight grip. I’m getting better at fighting him, but he’s incorrigible, and I must battle him daily. I find I am stronger than he is when I open my mouth and ask for help. 

Sometimes I feel things gray. Nothing. Can you feel nothing deeply? It’s numbing. I don’t know. Sometime I feel nothing and it’s there, pressed up against my heart. I don’t understand it. I guess sometimes I welcome it, hoping for a reprieve from green, or red, or even blue. Or the world has slammed me in the face with reality and poison and I feel too small to matter so I call for Gray. She’s medicine, I guess. Hello, medicine. But not really, because Gray does nothing. It cocoons me, but I don’t emerge as a butterfly, I’m still just me; gray and, oh! There’s another color. Hopefully Yellow. Hopefully Purple. Maybe even Red, just a little bit? All I know is that I’m no longer gray. Goodbye, Gray. 

Sometimes I feel things brown. Brown is complicated. I need Brown, but too much of Brown and all I am is a muddied mess that covers every other color that might try to save me. I need to remember my frailty and my weakness, I need to remember my flesh and bones are from this slowly dying world, but too much remembering and it’s like quicksand, sucking me down and deep and there’s no air down there. Orange tries to be friends with Brown, but Brown is a steady color. She’s the earth that sticks to the bottom of your feet and leaves behind your footprints. Brown remembers, too. She remembers everything; from the very first moment that she was created and when God pulled Adam out of her and shaped a man. She also remembers the serpent, and sometimes Brown can pull me down until I’m clogged and heavy, stuck in a mire. She is unbothered by whether or not I walk with her safely or if I stumble and fall; it’s all the same to her. She’s a unifying color, though, when we allow her to be. We all have weaknesses. We’ve all fallen short. We can use her to build a common ground between us, but we must continue on from her as well. She is not our home. 

Sometimes I feel things white. The absence of color? Or, at the very least, the absence of me. It’s the absence of selfish desire and broken pride and wounded desires; it’s just love. It’s love for the people, the places, the future in front of me. Sometimes I’m sat with a beautiful soul and all I feel is white and I can’t do anything except feel that glow for that person. I think that maybe they make the white and they’re the reason why I’m all lit up on the inside when I am with them. I feel White in the “pinch me” moments when I can’t believe that I am where I am, that my feet are standing in the sand and dust that might cause others to be orange or brown, but in that moment, in that instant, it’s all white. Sometimes my bluest moments were once white. Sometimes my whitest moments are stained red. Like I said at the beginning, Red shows up the best against White, leaving no one to imagine what color you once were. White and Yellow love to dance together, but I know that White is the strongest, most enduring, longest-lasting feeling. Some people in my life will always be outlined in White. I’ve found that there are people who were meant to be eternally white in my memories that are now just mostly blue. Sometimes I want to give up on White because other colors bleed into her and I can’t always focus on what is important, but White never gives up on me. When I feel things white, everything comes clearly into focus and, deep breath, okay, yes… this is why I am alive. White is worth the battles with Orange, and the falling from the blue sky to the blue water, and the brown stuck to the soles of my feet from walking alongside someone who needs a little help, and the redredred that soaks into my very core. And when I am white, I find that I am also purple, but only the very purest shade of it. White cleans away all the green. All the gray. All the ugly, too-much brown. White is the greatest of all. 

So, I feel things deeply. I feel the pain and the regret and the shame and the brokenness until I can’t breathe, but I also feel the freedom, the joy, the love and the hope. I feel the memories that ache, and I feel the dreams that have not yet been fulfilled, but I also feel the promises that have been kept and I feel the faithfulness of God’s goodness. My heart knows that deep cries out to deep, and I never want to ignore that call.