When You're at the End of Yourself
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When You’re at the End of Yourself
“I have no beautiful words left.” I tell my friend. In response she sends me this poem by Malcom Guite.
The Singing Bowl
Begin the song exactly where you are,
Remain within the world of which you’re made.
Call nothing common in the earth or air,
Accept it all and let it be for good.
Start with the very breath you breathe in now,
This moment’s pulse, this rhythm in your blood
And listen to it, ringing soft and low.
Stay with the music, words will come in time.
Slow down your breathing. Keep it deep and slow.
Become an open singing-bowl, whose chime
Is richness rising out of emptiness,
And timelessness resounding into time.
And when the heart is full of quietness
Begin the song exactly where you are.
//
Begin the song exactly where you are.
Where I am is at the end of myself. I’m like a jar that is both too empty and too full. I am all poured out, completely spent, desert-dry. Every last drop of resilience and energy seems to have evaporated into thin air. At the same time, I am full to capacity. I cannot take on one more piece of information, one more news report, one more zoom call. I have no headspace left to manage anything except surviving. Add in one more thing and I’m overwhelmed, overflowing. Everything is too much and not enough. I am too much and not enough.
The song I’m beginning with right now, is Psalm 77. Like a lot of psalms, it follows a particular structure: the writer begins by voicing their suffering and struggle to God. Then, towards the middle, a turning point occurs, a moment of clarity where the writer calls to mind all their reasons to trust God. Finally, it ends with praise and affirmation of God’s goodness, and the assurance that the writer’s prayer has been heard.
Because of this structure, it can be tempting to think that in the time it takes us to read the psalm, we should have taken the same emotional journey as the writer. We should have voiced our complaint, come to a place of trust and resolved our issues, all in the space of a few minutes. But ‘should’ doesn’t always lead us into the healthiest ways of thinking. I think Psalm 77 shows us there’s a different way.
In The Passion Translation, it begins like this:
I poured out my complaint to you, God.
I lifted up my voice, shouting out for your help.
When I was in deep distress, in my day of trouble,
I reached out for you with hands stretched out to heaven.
Over and over I kept looking for you, God,
but your comforting grace was nowhere to be found.
As I thought of you I moaned, “God, where are you?”
I’m overwhelmed with despair as I wait for your help to arrive.
Pause in his presence
Notice the intense honesty of the language. The psalmist’s distress and sense of abandonment are palpable. There are no quick fixes or trite theology here, no fake happy endings, no calls to look on the bright side, no sentences beginning with the words ‘At least…’ These verses simply bear witness to the pain and anguish that come from living in a broken, messy world.
I’ve felt that too, I imagine we all have; the prayers that never seem to get answered, the grief that cannot find comfort, the help that seems so far away. We exist in liminal space, in the tension between the now and the not yet of God’s kingdom. And sometimes it just hurts.
At the end of the opening section, we are invited to ‘pause in his presence.’ The Hebrew word for this is selah. I think of it as a sigh, an exhale, some room to stop and breathe. This psalm is not rushing us through our uncomfortable emotions, rather giving us the space to stop and be where we are; making room for us to tell the truth about how we really feel.
//
You would think after being given time to process those emotions, the psalm would reach its turning point and begin the upward curve towards resolution. But if we look at the second section, that’s not what happens.
I can’t get a wink of sleep until you come and comfort me.
Now I’m too burdened to even pray!
My mind wandered, thinking of days gone by—
the years long since passed.
Then I remembered the worship songs I used to sing
in the night seasons,
and my heart began to fill again with thoughts of you.
So my spirit went out once more in search of you.
Would you really walk off and leave me forever, my Lord God?
Won’t you show me your kind favor, delighting in me again?
Has your well of sweet mercy dried up?
Will your promises never come true?
Have you somehow forgotten to show me love?
Are you so angry that you’ve closed
your heart of compassion toward me?
Pause in his presence
Again, the psalm gives room for pain and suffering to be expressed, largely through questions, this time. Asking questions of God is not discouraged or seen as disrespectful, but taken seriously and given voice. Again, we’re invited to ‘pause in his presence’ as we take time to sit with those questions and doubts. It’s okay not to be okay, this psalm is telling us. It’s okay to ask and inquire, to be troubled and confused.
//
After this, the psalm does reach its turning point, where the writer calls to mind God’s character and the ways God has worked in the past. And it’s interesting to notice the psalmist offers time to ‘pause in his presence’ and reflect on this, too.
But I don’t think I’m ready for the upswing yet. I’m still wrestling with the questions, still processing my emotions, still thankful that God provided words for my grief and my pain. I’m still pausing in God’s presence, talking to her about how I feel.
Does that mean I’m without hope, or that I can’t feel joy in the meantime? No.
Our hope is anchored far out in the future, into a story that is bigger than any of our individual stories. It is gradually reeling us in* towards a day where there will be no more tears or crying or pain. I believe that with all my heart. But today is not that day.
I know how the psalm finishes. I know how our story as the people of God ends. I know that God is good and that all will be well. But for now, the journey towards wholeness starts with integrating my emotions and my questions, my doubts and my struggles so that I can become complete - a person who does not abandon any parts of herself, even the messy and painful parts. So I’m spending time in the selah, the space between the lines, the storm before the calm.
I'm asking my questions and telling my story. I'm trying to choose kindness and compassion for myself and others. I'm remembering that I don't have to be enough because Jesus is enough. I'm staying open to the beautiful, terrible, risky, breath-taking business of living life in all its fullness.
I’m beginning the song exactly where I am.
* I am indebted to Kate Bowler for this image around hope.
Reading Recommendations
My concentration for reading (and anything, really) ebbs and flows at the moment, so I wanted to recommend some shorter reads that will still do you good.
To Bless the Space Between Us: A Book of Blessings, by John O'Donohue
Late Irish poet, John O'Donohue wrote these beautiful blessings. Every line is rich with meaning and wisdom. There is a lot of literal space between us right now and I return to these words over and over again to find comfort and inspiration in the transition we're currently living with.
The Cure for Sorrow: A Book of Blessings for Times of Grief, by Jan Richardson
The other book of blessings I continually return to is this one, by Jan Richardson. Richardson's husband sadly died a short while after they were married, and she is a wise, gentle and seasoned guide leading us through the landscape of grief. This would be a thoughtful gift for anyone navigating loss.
Breath Prayers, with Osheta Moore
Not strictly a reading recommendation, but every week day, Osheta Moore leads a meditation and then a breath prayer on Instagram. Moore is a gracious host, welcoming each of her viewers with a good morning. The reflections she leads are simple, powerful and restorative for the soul. Tuning in is rapidly becoming one of my favourite parts of the day.
And finally...
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With love,
Abby