“Pick yourself back up” sounds nice in theory, but I question the phrase’s application. Oh, I understand the concept. I would like to think I’m capable of picking myself back up again. Many times I’m not.
Sometimes…sometimes the days fill with weeping in a bathroom corner or dressing room. The bed becomes a comfortable cave in which to hibernate. Discouraging thoughts circle like piranhas, frenzying the surface. (They smell blood on the water, blood in the air.) Resolution for a prescription takes eighty-seven hours to complete and requires being manhandled: passed on from one person and department to another for days and weeks on end.
These are the hard days—days where the internal motivation to pick myself back up focuses too much on the piranhas in the water rather than the boat beneath my feet. I lose track of where I am and lean toward them, kind of like Frodo and the lights. (Frodo! Why couldn’t you follow one simple rule when crossing the Dead Marshes?) My bootstraps have gone missing, and I lack the will to find them or a new pair.
Fortunately, I am not alone on this boat. I may be emotionally desolate. The piranhas could have captured my attention. Worry might cloud my thoughts and judgment. I, however, am not the captain of this particular boat. The Holy Spirit is. When I can’t pick myself back up, he settles in and reminds me that he is the one who comforts and guides, not me.
Sometimes that guidance hurts. He jerks me back from the water, a violent action that I need. It pulls me back from the abyss and reminds me of what is true, right, and good. He reminds me I am not in control and need to submit, yet again, to God’s plan and timing. Other times, he says nothing and sits with me in the hurt and confusion. (The Holy Spirit, unlike Job’s friends, knows what to say and when to say it.) He offers the comfort of his presence so that even when I’m in the dark, I hold onto the light.
Still other times he picks me up. He sets my feet upon a rock I don’t understand. I feel an incomprehensible peace. It couldn’t possibly come from me—nothing in me could summon such assurance. No, only God could produce the sensation. He picks me back up when I can’t because he’s the good God who cares for his sons and daughters.
Image: Barta IV (Creative Commons)