September was not my best month. It was a bumpy, inefficient take-off into the school year. Days on days of getting less done than I planned, feeling over-committed and under-fueled, and every day adding much-needed items to my self-care wishlist that rarely gets checked.
In months such as these, I sometimes engage in protests. Personal, silent ones, that in the end serve only to punish me. It makes no sense, and it’s incredibly childish, but I do it all the same. For example, I have more than once staged a revolt on the dishes. They have the audacity to be dirty, again! So I refuse to wash them before bed. Just. Not. Gonna. I make them wait until the morning. You know, until all the food is stuck on and the job is twice as hard. Take that, dishes! Or, I refuse to fold the laundry. It will have to wait until tomorrow when all the wrinkles are set. Take that, clothes!
Once I staged a walkout (with Derek’s help and blessing) and checked into a hotel room for one night— all by myself. I enjoyed the quiet solitude until I filled up once more with gratitude for the noises of home. I was the person who visited the hotel bar in her pajamas to order wine and cheesecake.
About all of this, I’m a little embarrassed. I’d like to think I can do it all, all the time, without a break or breakdown. To do that though I would need to act preventatively, as Jesus did. He frequently retreated to be alone with the Lord, and in this way, stayed ahead of it, ensuring He had enough of God’s heart and vision to survive the demands of the world. Or at least, modeled that method for us, whether He needed it or not. But sometimes, I just get too busy and distracted.
I am not alone. Some of the Bible’s heaviest hitters threw fits. Including Elijah, one of God’s greatest prophets. Elijah was a miracle-working powerhouse who, in 1 Kings 18, challenged the many prophets of Baal to a face off at Mount Carmel, fearlessly confronting them and King Ahab in a movie-worthy scene. The chapter began with Elijah single-handedly taking on the sin of a nation, and ended with him dramatically praying both fire and rain down from heaven, and then outrunning the king’s chariot in the spirit of the Lord.
But then in chapter 19, the Elijah of the previous chapter is gone. Instead of standing strong when threatened as he’d done before, he ran for his life into the wilderness. He sat down under a broom tree and gave up. He then told the Lord that he’d had enough— enough prophesying, and obeying, and self-sacrifice. He was done, and he asked the Lord to kill him.
In yet another demonstration of His grace, God’s response to this was kind. He heard him out, and let him sleep. He served him, sending an angel to feed and nourish him. God drew him to Himself, and then showed him both His might and His tenderness. He took his complaint, and gave him direction, and encouraged him, lovingly and firmly.
And just like with Adam, God didn’t shame Elijah in order to change his mind. He asked only a simple question: “What are you doing here?” God seems to know what great examiners know: let a man talk, and his excuses will do the heavy lifting of conviction.
But at the end of the day, as kind as God was, there are two hard truths here. (1) God still asked Elijah to keep going, at least a little farther. Dying under a broom tree was not an option. He had to dust it off, take the next step, and play the man. (2) It is here, after this encounter, that God arranged for Elijah’s replacement. A similar scenario to that of Moses. Or Gideon. Or the people of Israel requesting a king in 1 Samuel. At a certain point you get what you ask for, even if that means God carries on without you. God’s book is very much a “choose your own adventure,” even though He tells you which page He hopes you pick.
In my life, I have quit things I wish I hadn’t. As a girl I quit ballet the year I would have played Clara in The Nutcracker. I quit cheerleading my final year of high school. I quit some good relationships. With all of these— though God ultimately blessed it— I made the decision out of fear, fatigue, or complacency, even though I knew it was not God’s highest or best for me.
I have also not quit things. I didn’t quit on the month-long backpacking course I took with National Outdoor Leadership School. I am proud of that. I did not quit the marathon I committed to finish in 2005, though I vomitted twice, lost a toe nail, walked half of it, and only barely hobbled across the line. And I’ve not yet ever considered quitting on God or my marriage or my kids, despite my periodic hissy fits.
God is kind to us. He joins us right where we sit down, and begins a conversation. And He works with whatever we have left that’s workable. But when we stop listening, He stops speaking. When we harden up, He gives us over. When we refuse to be talked off our rock, He waits until we’re ready. Even if we never are. And this terrifies me.
I am certain there will be more times ahead when I enter too much into the telling of my own story. Or when, like Mitchell does to me, I try to turn the page on God even when He’s mid-sentence. But oh, Lord, let me not screw it up too much! I hunger to see the fullness of Your glory as You meant for me to see it.
And when life drives me, or my children, under a broom tree, may we always be willing to stand up once more, walk out to the entrance of the cave and listen— through the mighty wind and the shattering cliffs and the earthquake and the fire— for Your still, small voice on the back end of the passing storms.
And so with that, goodbye, September. And hello there, October.