Still

“Be still and know that I am God.”

— Psalm 46:10

Stillness isn’t something that comes naturally to me.

In fact, of all the lessons I continue to relearn during all the multiple and sundry tumultuous events of my life, the one that I forget most quickly is the value of stillness. Of just sitting and thinking and being open to what God would have me hear.

I think that’s why blogging and journaling have become such important practices for me. They are doing, but in order to do them, first I must sit in stillness and reflect. And often the processing happens through my fingers instead of in my thoughts, and I look back at what I’ve written in amazement and surprise.

They are the habits that break through my circling thoughts of musts and shoulds and need tos. And they do it in a constructive way, not in an I’m-too-exhausted-to-function way. By writing, I find that place of stillness in my heart.

On Saturday, our family went to see Black Panther: Wakanda Forever. And it wrecked me in the best ways, as well as a few difficult ones.

To those who know that Chadwick Boseman, the star of the first Black Panther, died before they made this one, it will be no surprise (and no spoiler) that the theme of the movie is grief. It was beautifully handled, and made all the more poignant when one looks at the movie not only as the requiem of the character of King T’Challa, but also of the brilliant actor who brought him to life in our hearts and who was taken from this world too soon.

More than that, though, the movie was a gorgeous fantasy epic in every sense of the word, featuring strong women handling world-threatening problems while dealing with immense grief, and handling them as women would.

It was a fantastic movie, and I came away from it hoping to write something so wonderfully executed someday.

We went to the Saturday afternoon matinee. After weeping for a good chunk of the movie, it left me with a lot to think about and process.

(Incidentally, we went to the movie for Jabin’s birthday party—he’s turning seventeen today—and he emerged from the theatre declaring it his new favourite movie in the entire Marvel universe. So they didn’t just hit the right notes for me, but for my teenage son. That’s an amazing feat.)

At one point, Princess Shuri (King T’Challa’s sister) is advised to “grieve according the traditions of her people, but don’t lose yourself in your technology.” Like many scientists, she doesn’t believe in the spiritual traditions of her people, and her journey through the movie is from the frantic search for a technological solution to the problems that face her that she believes only she can devise (an outward accomplishment-based solution) through a spiritual awakening to the inner stillness she needs to go forward in true peace and confidence.

Wow, does that ever resonate with my experience with grief.

After Levi died, I came to recognize that grief is one of the most potent tools God has for bringing us closer to him… but we have to choose to accept that invitation to closeness. For me and my dependence on busy-ness, moments of grief stop me in my tracks and almost force me to sit in stillness long enough to face the things I’m using my activity to hide from: my own insecurities and belief that I’m not enough all on my own.

We are all the sum of the stories we believe. Which is why I so often quote Muriel Rukeyser’s quip “The universe is made of stories, not of atoms.” The Enneagram helps us see those stories clearly, maybe for the first time. But I’ve been learning about the stories I believe for years before I stumbled on the Enneagram in March.

If only unbelieving them were as easy as seeing them for what they are, which is, frequently, a lie.

“We are all the sum of the stories we believe.”

That’s why we must, occasionally, be still. To hear the truth that counteracts the lies.

Yesterday, I went to a physical church service for only the second time since the pandemic started (the first having been in September). And, for the second time in a row, spent the entire service weeping.

As we left the parking lot, I told Jason, “I think the pandemic broke me.”

And it wasn’t until I wrote this post that I figured out why.

Photo by Aleksandr Ledogorov on Unsplash.

I’ve grieved a lot in my life. I’ve grieved some very hard things. But the pandemic was the first domino to tip in the breaking of the world as we knew it, triggering a series of events that is still flattening dominoes to this day. It seems every day we see one more ripple effect of the ways the pandemic has exposed the brokenness of our systems and our hearts.

And I grieve it. I grieve how little I can do. I’ve railed against God that he doesn’t do more. I’ve questioned him and yelled at him and begged him for proof that he exists. I’ve gotten busier and busier, burying myself in work to avoid the grief that always hovers at the edges, threatening to overwhelm me if I sit too still.

But the answers don’t come in the flurry of activity.

The answers only come when I take the time to sit and reflect on how he has been faithful. Through every storm and trial, he hasn’t gone anywhere.

I need to remember the lessons he taught me when I lost my little boy. That he doesn’t see these things like we do. He is much less interested in our happiness than in our hearts. And he never wastes our tears.

“He is much less interested in our happiness than in our hearts. And he never wastes our tears.”

Last week, I discovered that Steven Curtis Chapman (my favourite music artist) released another album, Still, earlier this year… and it found me just when I needed to hear it.

As I’ve listened to the album over the past few days, I’ve thanked God for the influence this man and his family have had on my life. In fact, it’s a little odd how many similarities my life has had to his, and I don’t just mean that he also adopted kids and also lost one in an accident almost identical to how we lost Levi. I see in him and am inspired by his heart and passion for God. And, since he’s always been a little further ahead on the journey than me, his music has been instrumental in helping me along on mine.

I doubt we will meet on this Earth. But someday, on the other side, I intend to seek him out and thank him for being so transparent with his struggles and his faith, for his music has often helped bring me back to the truths I have to learn again—that even when I doubt, and hurt, and weep, God is faithful. He’s already been wherever I’m going. And no matter what happens, I can believe in that.

Still.

Starting this week, I’m going to be experimenting with a blogging- and email-first approach to connecting with readers. I’m excited to have a series of behind-the-scenes blog posts for my Rise of the Grigori epic mermaid fantasy series kicking off on Wednesday. If you want to make sure you don’t miss that, sign up to get my blog emailed to your inbox in the sidebar or below this post, depending on your device.

Happy Monday, my friend. May your week be blessed.