On Taking a Day/Desire/Coffee

 "I just need a day," I complain to AN who is listening, yet again, to my relentless rambling about work and processing and the unavoidable agony of being a human. 

"Take a day this weekend," she reasonably responds, providing a clear and obvious solution that only a fool would ignore. 

"I can't, I have so much to do." I am the fool who ignores. 

"You're not going to have it in you to do it if you just keep going." She looks me square in the eyes, not threateningly but with resolute wisdom, "If you take a day you'll be able to work through it all much better." 

I want to roll my eyes or throw a table because she's so right. So I click the kettle on and put a strawberry flavoured green tea-bag in a takeaway mug and resolve to take a day. The tea is branded as a 'glow' blend - the type that will solve my life, the type that only an advertiser's dream like me would fall headfirst for. But I am bitterly aware that I need more than a tea bag to solve whatever is looming. I try it anyway though, obviously (we're desperate here).

Truthfully, my 'I just need a day' vision is that of my seventeen year-old self who had terrible school attendance and existed in a fog of escapism. There's something deeply ironic about seeking escape in a time fraught with a different escapism - a cascade of escaping if you will. I stare uncomfortably at myself in a mirror, fixing my eyes long enough that I feel too far and too close simultaneously. Right. What is going on? I ask myself. What are you looking for? Then the courage develops; what are you needing?

I could shudder uncomfortably at the awareness of truth; I clearly need something. A hole needing filled, or a bag lifted, or another coffee, or a new job, or a house on the beach, or a different existence. Any or all of the above. What do you need?

A collection of selves all speak up, longing to be heard - a day off, to be wanted, to be seen, to be invisible, to not have to do this, to not have to do this, to not have to do this.

It doesn't really matter what your 'this' is. There is and there will always be a 'this', which means there will almost always be a need for a day. Leading me to here; a coffee shop across from a priory that towers over a beach. The staff probably hate me consuming a seat when all I've bought is an americano and I've sat for over 2 hours at this point - writing and editing and people watching. Yet, the empowerment that comes from visiting somewhere unfamiliar fuels my stubbornness enough to keep me sitting here. I'd love to say that it's because I've gotten over the fear of being disliked. I've actually just got over the fear of being disliked by people I will never see again some of the time. That counts. 

So, in part the day is of the gruesome, stomach churning self-care sort. Needless to say not going to dwell on that and instead unpack my laptop and notebook, inspired by the person sitting next to me writing with a biro.

As soon as the pen is in my hand I can see me standing, as grumpy as I get when I am tired and have carried luggage too far and for too long that is too heavy, surrounded in bags. There are two large, awkwardly shaped wicker baskets on either side of my feet, aligned with my hands as I've tried to carry them uncomfortably. My shoulders hold my backpack, filled to the brim almost indenting into my skin. Behind one wicker basket is a large, two-wheeled (it's always two-wheeled, it's harder to pull and I love making my own life difficult) suitcase that's likely to be overweight and provocative of an airport charge. And I want to take sympathy on myself or graciously ask her if she meant to pick up so much, but all I can see is the grump and the stubbornness that could set it down but just won't. I don't know what to write or say so we just start praying; Lord, I can't carry it. An unexpected confession. You aren't meant to. An even more unexpected response. 

And we start to look into each container, one by one. Each one a desire, or a grasp at some sort of control that has never been up to me to carry. The desire to be wanted sitting uncomfortably against the desire to not be seen. The longing to make an impact resting on the longing to just blend in. Desire after desire after desire. Then, the heaviest pining. The added weight that sits amidst each and every bag, that morphs and flows into each gap it can possibly squeeze into: the yearning to know.

The desire to know is tucked under my arm, so snug and nestled in that I missed it initially. I'm happy to change my plan if He just tells me what the new plan is, but where's the trust in that? I don't know how to lay it down, but I give it to you; I envision handing it over, wincing and gritting my teeth in the process. He is the one who directs my steps, who places the light on my feet, meaning the whole journey isn't always clear. He is the one who knows and who holds the pen. It's uncomfortable to describe myself as a writer and hand someone else the needed tool. But I am not the writer. I am another pen or the piece of paper or a highlighter - the metaphor didn't extend that far in my head, if I'm honest. All that matters is that I am not in control. Focus on me, His gentle reminder. 

Instead of all of the luggage, I can see myself standing with arms holding a delicately, intricately wrapped gift. Eyes on me, the one true and loving Father fixes his focus on me, and I'm gripped by the loving compassion that spills out. When I look away the desire to unwrap the gift takes over. Not yet, keep your eyes on me. I know what's in there is good, so good. But, not yet. 

I trust Him enough to wait. 

I don't have to know. 

I can focus on a loving gaze that will give me what I need for the now. And know that He is good.

When I get home, AN and I offload and process and start making a pot of coffee. I joke that I'm outraged that I took a train and a metro and God didn't just tell me I could leave my job and He had a house on the shoreline for me to move into. My awful sense of humour is reminded, once again, that I just don't have to know. So that means it might happen tomorrow. 

What a relief it is to not have to know. Like a piece of glass being shaped in the furnace, the Creator is the one in control. And He knows. So I don't have to.