I had been steadily making changes. Praying. Meditating. Eating better. Doing stuff. Working hard on being my old (less sad, more purposeful) self. Me and God was vibing. There were parts of my life that were not perfect, but I was doing my best to do my part to get it together. I was doing the work, crushing it spiritually, maxing out as a parent and a wife—no small feat for a known wind walker like myself who was conscripted into service as opposed to those who join up willingly. I had grown and I had receipts. I had made the adjustments that life and God demanded, weathered some stormy situations, passed some killer tests, and felt like it was finna be all downhill-wind-at-my-back-sunny. Cuz. You know. The end of things are always better than the beginning.
My husband had a heart attack. And I lost all semblance of control. Stuff went way left really fast. I contemplated a lot of things that I won’t speak on here because it’s not just my story to tell. I’m just telling my part. But things were not okay out in the open. And I had to “come into the out” (I love Home).
I’m at an impasse.
And I have been sitting out here for months now. Not sure how to proceed, praying—pleading in tears and fear and frustration: God. Help me. Your will. But still…help me. This hurts. And I’m not exaggerating—it hurts. I have cried every day several times a day since June 24th from the sheer psychic pain of God ripping my life up—this life that I had set my face to be the best at.
I remember being in that ER on my knees, my face pressed into a mattress howling at the unfairness of it all and demanding that God answer my screeching demands as the machine hit that flatline sound for a smoove 10 minutes. The “Clear!” The “Mrs. Spencer, do you understand what’s happening?” The “Kisha! Do you understand?” The prayers of a stranger pushing me into complete and utter peace like I have never felt before. The sudden click of that switch going off in my mind as I focused on the spiritual oppression hovering around me devouring my whole mind. The holy songs and fierce prayers as I anointed the space with my own energy because I had no sage or oil. The dogged determination to produce the white light of impartation. The joy of everything being okay.
And every day thereafter, each slap. Slap after slap. Contempt on contempt. Hurt atop hurt. Uncertainty beyond uncertainty . Hateful words. Bitter cups. Loneliness crushing me like God opening up a window in heaven and pouring out gravity instead of blessing. I stood screaming and wailing, begging God to release me, but the beating just went on.
I found myself on my knees again a month later at a church service I hadn’t planned on even going to, short of breath as I felt God snatch something from me right there and I dizzily wondered did anybody else see it? Did anybody else feel the tearing asunder of something I couldn’t name? Did anyone else hear it: Kisha! Do you understand what is happening?
I wonder if you understand. If you know what it means to know viscerally that all things are working for your good, yet feel like you are only being held together by a thread. How much it hurts to not know which way to turn because every direction feels like the end of everything that you know. How it sounds when God is silent, the only sound the tearing, the ripping, the Do you understand what is happening?
All things are working for my good. God is intentional, never failing. So I just sit here. At an impasse. Waiting. Because it’s working for me.