It came about three years ago — The day when I couldn’t find words to pray. I opened my mouth to allow the spirit to blow life into the lifeless, but there was no breath behind it. I shoved my lips together to form words – scriptural passages and memorized stanzas — but I found that I didn’t have the strength to even think the words, let alone say them.
That was the hardest spiritual season of my life. It was worse than doubt. At least when doubt descends upon your mind, you have replacement options. You can choose science. Or belief in yourself. Or, if all else fails, you can be angry. Very, very angry. No, this was something so much more soul crushing than that. This was silence. Forced silence.
Jesus was there. But He wasn’t going to talk. And I had nothing left to say. We sat there like a marriage couple who couldn’t divorce, but couldn’t even make our hands or feet accidentally rub together, either.
There was shame on my part. Maybe I had given a false prophecy. Maybe I hadn’t cared for the poor. Maybe my pride was too great. Where had I gone wrong? And maybe…maybe…maybe I just wasn’t His girl any more? In the faint shadow of the night the truth hid — that I had fallen. The blows in life had actually knocked me out.
I turned to the church we had been sent to. But it seemed that He had left her to abusive men a long time ago. Maybe somewhere He still communicated with one of the tribes, but I didn’t know where or who to trust. And it didn’t seem like I had permission to go seek Him out, anyway. Because again, He was right there with me. Just silent and still.
Like a kid who had been tomato staked to a parent, I waited. And whined. And let my body go limp.
And so that became my prayer. Holding my breath. Waiting in hesitation. Until I broke. And cried deep and painful tears.
“I miss Him. I miss Him so much. … ….” And then, acknowledging that He was still there, “I miss us.”
While Jesus had taken me through seasons of understanding Him as Lord and Savior and King; lover, and comforter, and friend, He was now teaching me brother. Because a brother doesn’t always talk, and a brother doesn’t always tease. But a brother knows when it’s time to sit in the mud, silent and still. A brother knows how to sit there until you’re ready, without complaining about it, and without provoking you to move too early. A brother knows how to earn your trust again, even when it wasn’t Him that broke you. And a brother knows how to stand by your side as you try to rise again and get your posture back.
A brother walks you back out of the wilderness again, helping you to dream again. A brother watches as you are reminded of who you are. And a brother knows how to lead you back to your family who loves you.
So you know — The words did come back. And the prayers did come back. The hope in the family of God even came back. But the bond is deeper than it ever has been. Because there’s some bonds that can only be forged in the places when words stop. When you can’t even look anybody in the eye. When all you can do is know that there’s somebody there, waiting until you’re really ready.