Streams of Comfort

As an amateur writer, I have no qualms about admitting that I struggle with writing. Small bouts of depression and stress make writing difficult. Make focusing on God difficult. Feeling lonely makes life difficult. Yet this next part of the story has our protagonist exploring her feelings more deeply. I thought it would only be a two part story. However, I believe it will extend beyond that. My apologies for the cliffhanger at the end. Like the main character, I realized that if you make God a separate part of your life, then it’s easy to lose Him. It’s easy for Him to feel faraway. I hope you remember that God is closer than the air we breathe. He is with us through all the ups and downs. Mistakes and wins. I pray that we turn our eyes towards Him and remember that He never left.

Part 2

The figurative part of living is dreaming. It was a dream of isolation. Desired, desperate isolation that slowly became heavy, unshakable loneliness. I dreamed I was on an island for 1000 years. Alone because I wanted to be. 

As soon as I touched the bottle, I opened my eyes and stared at my ceiling. Light specs from the sunrise created patterns. Momentarily lost in the haze of dreaming, my eyes went in and out of focus. My hands were curled. As though they were holding a bottle. 

My time on the island was only a dream. Yet, the heaviness in my heart made it feel as though a 1000 years had actually passed. There was a stiffness to my movements as I readied myself for the day. I wasn’t sure how I would get through today or whatever came next. 

Before that dream, I felt suffocated. Surrounded by too many strangers and moving parts. We’re taught to always keep moving, but it got to the point where my soul cried out for rest. To stop moving. 

Perhaps that’s why I pictured isolation as a paradise. A place where no one would tell me what to do or where to go or who to be. 

Yet, as I soon realized, isolation takes its toll. Loneliness steps into the spaces where laughter and love once lived. Then pain. Everlasting pain that you won’t see your loved ones smile again. And that’s when I realized something important. I couldn’t “be myself” or “have peace.” Removing the parts of the equation I thought were causing strife did not help. When in fact, all I did was build a prison for myself. 

My thoughts were interrupted by a knock at my door. Walking as steady as I could I went to open it. 

It was my sister and brother-in-law. Smiling and holding hands. 

I didn’t even look at myself before I opened the door. Under their radiant happiness, I looked like a sloth. My hair was in knots and my eyes felt puffy from crying. The dictionary definition of a mess. 

My sister’s smile faltered slightly as she took in my appearance. 

“We’re going to be late. Why aren’t you ready yet?”, she asked accusingly. 

For a second, I simply stared. I could not remember what she was talking about for the life of me. 

I started saying, “Late for wh–”

Then I remembered. My sister convinced me to sign up for a shift at a baseball game. I was helping out at the high school where she taught. I was on popcorn duty. 

Suddenly I sprinted into action. Barely leaving the door open, I readied myself faster than humanly possible. Not giving my brain any time to think about my strange dream. 

It seemed my life was made up of moments like this. One moment lost in my thoughts, the next remembering something important and immediately having to act on it. Rare are the times we actually get to slow down and simply think. 

Once I was decent, I raced downstairs. The look in my sister’s eyes was almost murderous. She detested being late. To anything. Her husband looked far more forgiving and sighed like he knew what was coming.

“I called you last night to confirm all the details for today. Yet, you still managed to forget,” huffed my sister angrily. 

I was about to apologize and think of an excuse. My sister’s husband interrupted. He simply said, “Well we don’t want to be more late than we already are, do we?”

He was much better at handling my sister’s moods even though I have 30+ years of supposed experience on him.

While we were in the car, thoughts of my dream kept coming back to me. Was I depressed? Lonely? Empty felt more right. I didn’t have a husband to come home to. I’ve lived by myself for the past 5 years and don’t even have a cat. I had a very small circle of friends. I had only one close-ish friend. I saw them on occasion. I stopped feeling accomplished at work a long time ago. 

I looked at my sister, who seemed to have everything I didn’t. Was she as happy as her Instagram feed implied? I didn’t have a way to formulate that question in a way that didn’t sound awkward, so I stayed silent. 

When we got to the baseball field, we met with our “supervisors” and headed off to our respective assignments. I trudged my way to the popcorn stand. I saw a lot of my old school mates supporting children of their own. Living in a small town, you can’t miss anyone’s milestones. The same people do the same things. Get married, have children, almost get a divorce, have more children. Rinse and repeat. 

At one point, I thought of having a child thinking it would appease some of the loneliness I felt. I’d heard of a few women who held the badge of single motherhood fiercely. I thought maybe if I made a “forever companion”, I’d be okay. Almost immediately though, I shut down that idea. I could barely care for myself let alone another human being. Plus, I dreaded the thought of them growing up. I feared they would see what a mess their mother was. I worried they would resent me for it. No thanks. I do enough of that myself. 

I began mindlessly scooping popcorn while I contemplated the second part of my dream. Remembering my crush George. That was his name. Him inviting me to church with wide eyes. Me rejecting him and seeing the hurt in those eyes. If memory serves, he became a youth pastor at the local church. We haven’t crossed paths much. A small miracle in a town this small. Perhaps he’ll be here with his wife supporting the local team. 

Some days I regret not looking past my anger and staying at the church. It was a place my sister seemed to find happiness and community given the way she always talks about it. I resolved that maybe, just maybe, I may give it another try one day. My heart felt slightly less empty at the thought of potentially appeasing my loneliness.

 I suddenly remembered a verse my grandmother would say when I cried by her bedside as a child. She would quote Psalm 34. 

“The Lord is close to the brokenhearted and saves those who are crushed in spirit.” 

She would whisper that to me as she stroked my hair out of my face. A touch more gentle than rain. She would repeat it over and over again until I was done crying or fell asleep. She always said that God is with us, even when it doesn’t feel like He is. Especially then. That the devil uses the world to convince people that God is far away. When in fact, He is the closest thing. 

The fog in my brain started clearing a bit and I felt my eyes start to water. The loneliest place is the one we build ourselves. As my dream showed me. In believing that we are alone, we pretty much ensure that we are. For so long, I let myself get trapped in a prison of my own making. That people are the enemy. They are not. I almost started to believe that when I heard a noise behind me. 

“One popcorn please,” a deep, familiar voice called from behind the counter.