Just as I am, though tossed about

with many a conflict, many a doubt,

fightings and fears within, without,

O Lamb of God, I come, I come.

(Charlotte Elliott, 1789-1871)

I close my eyes and attempt to open my heart—breathing a deep, heavy sigh of apprehension tinged with the tiniest bit of hopeful expectation.  I am fearful He will not meet me here, today.  And yet, in spite of me, in spite of my fear, I come.

This coming is new for me—I am typically more likely to withdraw and be found hiding away somewhere hoping to be sought after and drawn out.  Or to not be found, as is more often the case, given how good I’ve gotten at hiding throughout the years.  But something is changing.  I am less likely, here as of late, to run.  It is an interesting albeit unexpected departure from the norm.  But that doesn’t mean the fight or flight response is gone.  Not yet.

At the leading of my guide, I attempt to envision a place that is safe—my “rock that is higher” to which He brought me several months ago, and I push through all that fights for my meager, remaining bit of attention, inviting Him to join me here.  Inviting, imploring Him to speak to me.

I lay before Him on this blustery, cold January afternoon all that weighs heavy on my heart—my topic today a departure from the path we’d taken off down a few weeks ago.  Prompted by a number of “coincidental” comments, I summon up no small amount of courage to ask for prayer about my writing, which I have recently begun to consider taking more seriously.

My heart pounds with self-conscious anxiety as I explain what is going on within me—the frustration with the roadblocks I keep slamming up against in my schedule, the inexplicable resistance that rises up from within me, drawing my focus to anything shiny or instantly gratifying, the sense of urgency I feel to respond to the stirring I feel in my spirit, the fear that if I don’t.

The fear.  Oh, the fear.  I come undone—so overwhelmed am I by the force of it.  She urges me to take my fear to Jesus.  I hesitate—taking big, deep breaths attempting to fill my lungs with courage so that I might exhale it all in His presence.  A full minute of wrestling until I finally begin—and then the whoooooooooosh of it all releasing, all that has been pent up, all that terrible holding of my breath for so, so very long.

I tell Jesus that I am afraid.  That I am afraid of failing at this.  That I am afraid of succeeding at this.  That I am afraid of what other people will think.  That I will again be considered “too much.”  That I will have nothing worth saying.  That I offer nothing of value to anyone. I tell Him that I fear will conceive these dreams only to have them die in the womb, never breathing life into their fragile lungs.  I tell Him.  All of it.

And I tell Jesus, because I have only just realized it for the very first time, that I am desperately, profoundly , achingly afraid that He will take this from me, too.  Like H’s taken the music.  And the theater.  And the art. And I can no longer exhale, because I can no longer breathe.

When the ability to inhale returns, my guide quietly asks me if I want to inquire of Jesus what He wants to say to me about my fear.  I shake my head no.  She gently persuades me to do it anyway.  I begrudgingly ask.  And I sit.  And I wait for my answer.

Jesus sits across from me, on a large boulder five or six feet away.  He leans toward me, His elbows on His knees, His hands clasped underneath His chin. And He sits.  And He waits, ever so patiently, with His deep, earnest eyes fixed on my face, for me to look at Him.

“What does He say, Lorie,” my guide asks after a long stretch of silence.  I shrug my shoulders, sniffling and snorting, avoiding words and dodging her gaze.  “Ask Him what He wants to say about your fears.”  I sigh.

Fine.

I lift my gaze almost defiantly and attempt to allow my eyes to meet His but all I can see for a moment is my fear, obscuring my view.  Then His eyes pierce through my fear, suddenly coming into focus in all their fierce, gentle, terrible sweetness—and He tells me.

I want to hear what you have to say.  What you have to say is precious to me.

I meet His tender gaze for as long as I can stand it.  It penetrates deep into my spirit—His eyes speaking a language of love beyond the reach of mere words.  I cannot bear it any longer—His heart for me, in spite of me.  I drop my face into my hands, and I weep.

I do not know what to do with His words.  With His affirmation.  With His affection.  I am unable to respond, and yet, I do not sense He expects me to.  This is enough today.  In spite of my fear, I have come.  In spite of my resistance, He has spoken.

He wants to hear what I have to say.

And I desperately want to believe Him.

Just as I am, thy love unknown

hath broken every barrier down;

now, to be thine, yea thine alone,

O Lamb of God, I come, I come.

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