When Plans Fall Apart

I have found myself back in this familiar place. Blank page, knots in my stomach, and words on my heart. For the first time in a very long time, the energy surrounding the call to write the story in my heart isn't some creative mad energy--it is a nervous, yet confident trusting energy. A confidence and trust that these words have been laid upon my heart and need to be birthed, not because I need to produce for success but rather because I need to write these words to live. Stories are sacred and I have spent the last year honing my skills as a story hearer. Now, I return to a virtual space that has held my story as sacred for years. The place where I return to process things that somehow cannot seem to be processed by merely speaking or writing in my personal journal. So, here I am, hands damp with nervous sweat but hope for the first time in a long while in my heart.My plans fell apart, again. A few weeks ago, the thing I thought was the perfect puzzle piece, a beautifully fitting metaphor that my grandmother often refers to, didn't fit. If you are a puzzle person, or have ever suffered through trying to piece one together, you'll know the piece. It is the exact right shade, the exact right shape yet no matter how hard you try to shove it into the place it is destined to be in--it simply will not fit. This is usually when I blame the factory and figure I ought to get the scissors out and fix it myself. Yeah, trust me when I say, it isn't the factory's mistake--it is simply that the piece does not go there, does not belong there, and will need to be put aside till its right place appears. This place often occurs later in the puzzle piecing process. I thought I had the right piece at the right place in the precisely right time; I didn't and I was crushed. The ground beneath my feet felt like it had suddenly disappeared and I was free falling.To be honest, on some days it still feels a whole lot like free falling with nothing there to catch me and then on other days the free falling seems to be gloriously and terrifyingly hopeful. When the groundwork of my path was destroyed, most recently, it scared me and still scares me. However, I think showing up in this space, writing these words and remembering that my story is sacred too has me thinking I might be planting a garden rather than building a road with a destination. Instead of laying more asphalt, perhaps I am meant to toil the soil.Several years ago, I had a similar experience, the plans I had so carefully crafted were completely upended and the beautiful path I was creating was uprooted and I was destroyed. It was, for lack of better words, a crisis of faith. I felt defeated and worthless. I had put myself in a nice box which I promptly labeled "Margaret, Masters in Modern History on the PhD path to then be a liberal arts professor." If that sounds incredibly specific, its because I designed it that way and refused to see I was so much more than this label on a metaphorical box.This crisis of faith, invited me into something that scared me, doubt. So, I met doubt head on and surprisingly heard and (begrudgingly) chose to answer a call from God. Doubt, in my experience, is often rich soil for a deepening of faith. In that pain and anger I learned I could use what I call strong prayer language with God and say the truth that was on my heart and I discovered God was tough enough to handle it and faithful enough not to abandon me in that desolate place.As I sat in a garden several weeks ago, sobbing, fuming, heart split open I knew that I could say what I needed to say, feel what I needed to feel, and I believed God was with me and would be with me in every moment following when we could begin to gently tend the freshly uncovered soil together.It is not easy work. Some days are better than others, today is one of the better days, yesterday was one of tender sadness and grief--you just take it as you go and as it comes, the only way out is through so I grant myself the grace to be where I am at, knowing God always meets me in that space and sits with me. It's funny, after spending a year as a chaplain resident I think I have just realized that God is an awfully good chaplain.I have an empty plot of land, I can see the flowers and trees I planted long ago in the garden of my soul, but where there once was asphalt fertile soil has been revealed to me. This post is one of the first of many seeds that I am planting. What is next? What am I doing? What am I planning? I am answering the calls God has laid upon my heart to rest, to pray, to trust, to take care of myself, to write, and to learn my worth has never and will never be rooted in the things I do. I am surrendering to the free fall and trusting I do not fall alone.Grace, Peace, and Much Love,(The now a Reverend instead of a Dr.) Margaret