Dry Bones Dancing

I don’t know if this will make much sense, but I have to get it out, put it down in words – this is a bit of my journey with what is called “church”

It rings in my head – “Bone Dry.”

You’ve heard it said – “Dry as a Bone.”

But bones aren’t dry . . . unless they are dead.   Dead Dry Bones.

Alive and they are strong – giving life, cleansing the body, not dry at all.

So when did I become bone dry? Dead? Forgetting, dying . . . Old and grey I wonder how a mind can fail to realize what they have forgotten, children fading into nameless faces. Watched my grandmother’s mind fade into oblivion as her spirit held onto her Lord. Those bits of pain they fade, the grief’s crazy edge dulls, like how I can’t remember quite how my breasts burst for him. The mad raging howl inside has subsided. What I am left with is Love and all the good.

I flip back through pages of memory and find the beautiful writing unfaded, I still know the feel of my babe’s silky forehead, the only kisses I would ever give him. I can trace his button nose like it was yesterday that I held him those few moments. Glad that I have come out of the coma of grief, no longer a wounded animal lashing out in fear and pain.

Good God, He walks us through the steps, each stage faithful to bring you to the next even when all feels lost in the uncharted madness of loss. Aren’t we all grieving and aren’t we all blessed? What do you do when you step out into that wide space of healing though? When you can’t blame your stumblings on a disabling hurt, when it’s no longer time to wait to start living again – what do you do then?  Praise, a sacrifice lifted from lips free of bitterness, from a heart purged by pain. If I mumble my thanks amidst petty gripes and complaints I fall back into the walking death of apathy, numb to this riotous beauty that is life truly.

No  – Wake up! Remember your first love, See where you have fallen from! Raise your hands in His freedom, Revel in his grace! The dead bones will Rise, they will Dance in the Desert! Giddy on the wine of His ever giving, all quenching water.

Long ago, not much more than a child, I stumbled into the circle of friends, sons and daughters in the flower of their youth. I thought I was grown, thought I knew life. We had no idea what we were doing, but we knew Him and we gathered round, to sing and to receive. Kneeling on that worn carpet, cross legged, holes in our jeans, flannels wrapped round, we hurt each other and we gave each other grace. I tiptoed in after parties and the wrong guys had kept me from their fellowship. My heart aching, my soul searching, I wondered if I would still be welcome. Gap toothed grin from behind his guitar let me know I was in the right place among brothers and sisters. Afterwards he said, “Come to the cornfields, pitch a tent, listen to the music, He will bless you, join us.” That was the last time I saw him. Driving to the festival, dark road and a semi, and we gathered round a hospital bed to whisper goodbye to his broken body. We prayed and cried, kids hit by life, didn’t know how, didn’t know, just didn’t know anything – but God . . . and we drove and we pitched our tents and we listened to music and punk rock and Jesus held our broken hearts together. Met at the skate ramp, black haired boy with his flesh pierced reminded me Who had been pierced for me. Reminded me Christ didn’t care what I had done, just loved me that was all, and knew I would need Him before I ever did. Said “Just Stop, Just Follow Jesus.”

And my path was never the same, I turned from the dark road I had stumbled down but I did not become what I had hoped. I hoped for perfection and a person I could be proud of. That I am not. I am a mess, always wandering off, hurting others, failing and fearing, holding not even a handful of the faith I long for.

But my Lord brings me back in brokenness. I stumble hesitant, fearful off to College. After more boys and way too much of my own way, He leads me to another circle of friends gathered every Monday night for Koinenea – Fellowship. Singing and telling each other what He had saved us from. Another smile, this one with curls and a young wife, leads us into worship and we grow together in His Presence. Undeserving I am graced with a husband, strong man with a  dream to fly. As he learns to soar, we move and move again till I begin to loose track of where I am. Graced again, the babies come and I am terrified. I just don’t know what I am doing, too young, too small, feeling more than a little alone. We cling together and search for fellowship. A small church and we find another circle to worship amidst and then we move and we move, on and on it feels . . .

more babies, and separation and loss and suddenly I am older, and tired and finding it hard to see my way. Unable to remember just how much I am forgetting. I struggle to worship amidst a sea of faces, I sneak out of services and begin to stiffen at the mere thought of Sunday morning. I know perfection is lost, unattainable and that true fellowship, friendship takes living life together and still I LONG for more. I yearn for more and heap the guilt on myself – I am too picky, unrealistic, difficult. Frustration builds, angry at an undefined enemy. Yet hope still flickers deep within. There is something, something . . . though I have forgotten what it is. I know I need it and that it does exist. I tell Him I don’t know how to find it but I will wait for Him to give. I will not give up.

Then I meet them. Surfers overflowing with joy and it sparks in me, remembering a time when I had that crazy uncontainable taste for Him, living just to be full of His spirit. They tell me of a time when believers gather – and worship. Then I meet her. A photographer whose images and words have moved me. Her full of life and honesty and telling me of a time when friends meet – to worship. I know He is leading me and despite every hurdle rising up we go. Children in our arms and at our sides . . .

We step into the room and are bathed in His presence. We come tired but His joy rushes in fast and strong. I come ashamed and He lifts my head, breathing forgiveness overwhelming. We laugh and cry, raise our hands and hold our babies. We kiss and look at each other afresh – in His love. We do not know anyone in the room but they carry us on the shoulders of their praise and prayers. Their spirits magnify the Lord and infinite God grows larger to our myopic eyes. We know not a soul but see Him through His people, His body broken for us, His church.

We enter into worship and I remember.   I remember what I must have to live.   I drink the water, slurp it up, splash and play.   I revive enough to realize how dry I was.   We in our brokenness, a vessel to be filled and we hold each other.

I still don’t know what comes next, how to live this season of healing. But it is no longer forgotten that I need the places of oasis. In a land of walking dead, we all traveling to the grave – I am dry bones dancing. Crucified in Christ it IS no longer I who live, but He lives in me and He has a body – my brother, my sister, my husband, my children. I am not my own. And He lives in the praises of His people – Not in programs or buildings, churches or “Christians” but in His children. The broken believing sinners, forever failing, bought with His blood, filled with His spirit, saved only by His amazing grace.

In that grace, in this world – I am dry bones dancing.

dry bones Dancing

 

“It’s foolishness I know but when the world has seen the light, they will dance with joy, like we’re dancing now.”

“And He will say dance, dance, children dance, dance forevermore. Hold hands and sing of your freedom as you dance around my throne.” – worship songs

“Tenderness and grace – How you’ve come this place  – However dangerous or safe – I will find you – I will find you” – Avett Brothers

 

5D . VSCO 800Z+ . Grampa’s Polaroid 420 Land Camera . need to figure out how to fix the bellows so they don’t leave dark shadow across bottom . . .