(Psalm 139)
Somewhere along the line, I lost track of God. We’d never really been close, unless I was in big trouble or needed something I thought was important. In the meantime, around age 23, after a heartbreak, I’d gotten bored with friends and family…And wasn’t I just plain more adventurous than all of them? I could go off and start a new life somewhere I had never been, where I knew no one. See what I was made of. Turns out, not much.
At first, the newness of way-finding was exciting, and of course the stories I had to tell the folks back home were genuine capital in my coolness bank. But what about that gnawing fear in my gut that began waking me each morning? The aimless wandering around the apartment on my off days? Or the indecisiveness that began creeping into the slightest of choices: sugar, cream, decaf??? All of these things were not part of the story I was willing to share. Coolness was descending into clueless. Where was I? Who did I belong to? Who were my people? How did you do this life thing? I was so scared. I quit. I flew home. I was humiliated and empty. Imploding, undone.
The next day, my brother called. He’d moved to Oregon. We talked about my time away and I told him what I could, that I didn’t really know what I was doing. That I was lost and had failed. I was stupid. I couldn’t figure out how people directed their lives by themselves. Yet it didn’t make sense to rely on someone else for my life. The world was a mess. People were a mess. It all seemed so hard. And why did we need to do this anyway? Where was the meaning? It used to be fun! WHAT WAS I SUPPOSED TO DO?!?! He told me his story, about going off the mountainside with his friend, Doug riding shotgun. He lived and my brother cared for him as he healed from a broken back. Doug was a “believer”. His faith healed my brother. He asked me if I had thought about Jesus and His love for me. No, I hadn’t. Truth was, I had totally forgotten about God.
A few days later, a friend from my old office called. He’d heard I was back. Nice guy, cute. He had told me once that my name meant Peace in Greek. He was a Bible enthusiast, and thought I might want to meet some of his other friends. Just some folks, some girls that were good, kind, easy to be around. Well, maybe. I didn’t know (still a favorite phrase). And…wait. He hadn’t told me their resumes or let me know what cool stuff they were into. And the Bible, seriously?
Then he and a girlfriend just showed up. They were going to the beach to hang out with friends there. I should come along. I could definitely do that. Warm sand, swimsuits and shorts, surfboards, Frisbees. At dusk some started heading back to the “Zoo,” a huge old house near the hospital where some of the guys lived. We made a meal together. There was joy. And music. Songs of God’s grace and love. They read from that Bible. They talked about it, found meaning in it, made use of it. Jesus was a real person. They said prayers of thanksgiving. The sun had gone down. My tiny inner sun had begun its ascent.
In the weeks and months that followed I learned all over again about salvation, grace and forgiveness. And that we are never alone. The first words in the Bible I ever read by myself came from Psalm 139. I am known. I cannot hide. God has been in every dark and hopeless moment. He wept with me. And hoped for me when I had stopped hoping.
I met my BFF during those early months of healing and rebirth. I got a new job. We rented a nice duplex together with a view of the bay. We hosted dinners, sang songs and prayed together. I met Jesus over and over.
Three years later, I moved away again. It would be different this time. I knew whose I was, and where to find home. And these days, my brother confides in me, sharing his trials with family and work and life. We remind each other of Jesus’ life and words and where our hope comes from.
