Aching

This past Saturday, my brother and I moved a truckload of furniture from Traverse City down to Detroit in the most miserable conditions of the season. It was raining and cold, and by the end, every part of me was soaked to the skin. It was a grueling, altogether horrible experience, which I plan on never repeating.

Since then, my body has been in a constant state of Ache. My feet hurt, my knees hurt, my back hurts – even my eyebrows hurt. I’ve slept and taken drugs and had plenty of water. There’s just no stopping the ache.

A few Saturdays before last Saturday, I made a similar move with a different truckload of stuff (or rather: a truck, an SUV and a minivan of stuff) from Midland to Detroit in altogether different conditions. The weather was nice, the company was good, and the move was relatively easy. And yet still – the ache. A different kind of ache, but just as real, just as present, just as untreatable. An ache for friendships changed, people lost, the moments left behind. An angry aching for leadership and truth. I ache for what was, and I ache for what will never be. I am in a constant state of Ache.

To be honest, I’ve been really afraid of saying that I’m aching; afraid that I might not be able to climb back up the walls of that dark place. That by admitting the ache, I would shake the foundation of this new place I’ve found. But I was wrong. Because whether I stand my ground, jump in, or fall down, the walls still close in; squeezing slowly until all that’s left is the Ache.

It is so incredibly counterintuitive, but the only way to deal with these walls is to face them. Not to climb or smash through them, although I have tried both. Not to hunker down or to bury yourself under them, although I have tried those too.

No, I have finally internalized that there is only one right way for me. So here I am – at 11:59 PM – in that time between today and tomorrow, facing the wall and feeling the ache. And finally, once again, writing it down.

This might not make a lot of sense to you, this entry. But it is the beginning… again; one in a long line of beginnings that I’ve needed in the past ten years or so. And if ever I were to actually write a useful guide to faith, I know it would always end here. With an ache and a beginning. Again.