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| My daughter has done some hanging on. Tough. Still. |
Somebody's TV is blaring somewhere among the neighboring houses. A motorcycle roars out there. Dogs bark. Silence dims.
In contrast, my heart wants to be silent. It doesn't want to speak out loud what it doesn't want to hear. Where is the invitation? Where is the signal to push up? Until when do I have to wait? To hang around?
I have strained. Fought. Clamored. Pushed. Now there seemed to be no pushing. Just a hanging somewhere. Nowhere.
I am hanging by the rope with nothing left to do but hang, while the sun beats down and the wind blows and sways me all around. When there's no moving up that is happening, then I slowly inch down, down, down. Do I have to push again? What is there for me to do? Just hang on?
I remembered my old high school yearbook. I wrote beside my picture, "Just hangin' tough". Feels like that now. Hanging. Tough.
Yes, just hanging is tough. There is no invitation to push up. No signal to move up that rope. Nothing, too, about letting go. So, I just hang on. And I say it again, it is tough. Because in just hanging, there is a tendency to slide down. Down, down into a pit. And in hanging, everything in me wants to push myself up. Yes, up, where there is something new, something exciting, unlike the usual scenario of just hanging in place. Here.
But hanging is where I am now. Hanging is what I am (to be) at the present. Not sliding down. Not pushing up.
So I stay tough. I stay tough for me not to slide down. I stay tough for me to refrain from pushing up. I stay tough and simply be still. I hang here. Still. Or trying to still the clamoring in my heart. And trying to fight sliding down into despondency or nothingness.
I don't want to be down there. I would certainly want to be up there. But up is not what I have to be at the moment. Up will come at its proper time. Right now, all I have is to be, here--- hanging, hanging, hanging. And it's tough.
So I hang with all my heart. I hang with all I have. I hang knowing that there will come a time when I am invited to go up, push up. Up, to where I should be. Up, to where I am not sure what sounds I will hear. Up, where I would write because of the silence. Maybe I don't have to write in protest to the silence because my heart will be quiet and calm, not shouting loudly, screaming its discontent. Up--- I will be where I should be. Just as I am now where I am now. Hanging. Staying. Still.
And getting through by being tough. I know there's fresh supply of strength everyday to do the job (Philippians 4:13). Even of hanging. Here. Now. Of waiting.
I wait. Still, while the wind blows. The rain falls. The sun beats. The birds chatter. The motorcycle roars. The baby wails. The dogs bark. My friend snores. The airplane drones. My pen scribbles. My heart race.
I write as I hang in here. I write to find that strength given to me, within me.
"Let my soul be at rest. The Lord has been good to me." (Psalm 116:7)
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