the art of endurance.

Words have failed me for the past 6 months.

I'm used to writing. I'm used to waking up in the morning and feeling an itch to put my thoughts, feelings, and ideas into words. I'm used to feeling passionate about lots of things, having words on the tips of my fingers about all of them, and getting feedback. It's a pattern I've grown accustomed to, something I find true joy in. Words given to me from the Father, like how water is funneled through sewer systems and tunnels and pipes to the faucets, showerheads, and toilets we take for granted every day (can you tell I have very limited knowledge on how the water system works?). 

But there's some seasons where you're not the faucet, pouring out and giving and dreaming and thinking--you're the conduit. Suddenly, you're the tunnel, the pipe, even the sewer system filled with gunk. You're on your way somewhere, you know you will be filtered and cleansed and washed for better use down the road, you just don't know when. Everything around you is dark and fuzzy. You feel like maybe you've lost the way, and you allow yourself for just a fleeting moment to imagine that you're the captain. You direct yourself, and oh, the pressure that comes with that fleeting thought! Suddenly, everything is more high stakes because you're in charge and if everything around you fails, it's all on you.

I haven't really written since May. My journal has been pretty much empty (save for a few desparate entries, when my heart felt like it couldn't carry the burden anymore), my blog has been--visibily--very empty, and I just don't know where all my words went. I thought, "Maybe writing isn't my gift. Maybe I've let people tell me that for years, and I'm just going along with it because I'm a people pleaser. Maybe I'm just not a writer by nature."

But I just sat down because this morning, after desperately turning to Matthew 13 to look at a passage about endurance, a full-fledged sentence entered my head. This usually happens to me all the time, but this was the first time in months. It almost felt like permission: Is it okay for me to write now? Are these words for You, Lord? 

So I got back from class this afternoon and I let myself sit on it. I thought I didn't want to write. I thought that I would be bad at it now. I thought, "Maybe that was it, just a sentence, and I'm not equipped to serve God in this way, so I should just let that go."

But it persisted, so after indulging in some Netflix, I caved and here I am. And the words are falling out of me like water. Like water from a faucet that hasn't been turned on for months.

For months, I've let ignorance and avoidance write the story. I've let my own submissiveness to the greater, bigger idols in my life drive what I think, do, say, and feel. The only time I felt freedom from this was when I was at camp, and as soon as I left, it crept back up on me.

I've been searching for reason and permission to do something I know for a fact I've been called by God to do. I've been looking for a reason to keep doing it even when it doesn't feel natural or right.

What if I never needed permission? What if I've been given permission already, and I'm the one who told myself I wasn't good enough anymore? What if I let the Enemy lie to my face for 6 months, and those lies have grown into my heart like climbing vines on a building?

Here's what I haven't been doing: enduring. I haven't been holding fast to what I know in my heart to be true because of my own insecurities. Which brings me to this morning.

Matthew 13 tells us the parable of the four soils, or rather, the parable of the sower. It's a lot of verses, y'all, but bear with me here because it's rich and I need it all to be here:

That same day Jesus went out of the house and sat by the lake. Such large crowds gathered around him that he got into a boat and sat in it, while all the people stood on the shore. Then he told them many things in parables, saying: “A farmer went out to sow his seed. As he was scattering the seed, some fell along the path, and the birds came and ate it up. Some fell on rocky places, where it did not have much soil. It sprang up quickly, because the soil was shallow. But when the sun came up, the plants were scorched, and they withered because they had no root. Other seed fell among thorns, which grew up and choked the plants. Still other seed fell on good soil, where it produced a crop—a hundred, sixty or thirty times what was sown. Whoever has ears, let them hear.”
The disciples came to him and asked, “Why do you speak to the people in parables?”
He replied, “Because the knowledge of the secrets of the kingdom of heaven has been given to you, but not to them. Whoever has will be given more, and they will have an abundance. Whoever does not have, even what they have will be taken from them. This is why I speak to them in parables:
“Though seeing, they do not see;
though hearing, they do not hear or understand. 
In them is fulfilled the prophecy of Isaiah:
“ ‘You will be ever hearing but never understanding; you will be ever seeing but never perceiving.
For this people’s heart has become calloused; they hardly hear with their ears, and they have closed their eyes.
Otherwise they might see with their eyes, hear with their ears, understand with their hearts and turn, and I would heal them.’
But blessed are your eyes because they see, and your ears because they hear. For truly I tell you, many prophets and righteous people longed to see what you see but did not see it, and to hear what you hear but did not hear it.
“Listen then to what the parable of the sower means: When anyone hears the message about the kingdom and does not understand it, the evil one comes and snatches away what was sown in their heart. This is the seed sown along the path. The seed falling on rocky ground refers to someone who hears the word and at once receives it with joy. But since they have no root, they last only a short time. When trouble or persecution comes because of the word, they quickly fall away. The seed falling among the thorns refers to someone who hears the word, but the worries of this life and the deceitfulness of wealth choke the word, making it unfruitful. But the seed falling on good soil refers to someone who hears the word and understands it. This is the one who produces a crop, yielding a hundred, sixty or thirty times what was sown.”

​I read these verses and suddenly, it felt like something clicked. I've spent six months not writing, not looking to God for my daily nourishment, wondering what it takes to get His attention, to let Him know I'm ready for growth and progress and movement.

I am planted. I've been planted, and I pray it's in rich soil that will grow to be fertile and produce multiple crops. I don't want to have a faith planted in shallow soil that withers as soon as the sun bears down, or a faith that chokes the plants when it springs up. I want a faith that grows because there's days of rain, days of sun, and necessary refinement--all things required of a fruitful crop. A shallow faith seems so easy because it requires no trust. It only requires the image of trust which is easy to feign on the outside, but not so easy when you face inner turmoil due to that lack of trust.

Just like trust, endurance is hard. I know this to be true on a physical level because I ran cross country for one glorious season my freshman year of high school--and quit immediately after that one season. If that isn't representative of my idea of "endurance," I don't know what is.

Endurance takes training. It's not something you learn in one practice--it takes dozens of practices to be able to run a full 5k without stopping to walk (at least for me it did!). It takes all kind of stretching, form training, and breathing techniques to be able to coach someone to cross that finish line. It is not easy, but the reward is great. And I guess that's what I've been missing: a faith that is not defined by how quickly I can cross the finish line, but by showing up for the race. I don't have to be the best one at everything I do to prove to God I'm worthy of being His daughter. I don't have to have more friends, be the most fit, or have straight As to serve His kingdom well, to disciple and be discipled.

I just have to show up, be planted, and endure.

Endurance is an art. It takes time to perfect it. I will never perfect it, just like artists never perfect their craft: they're always learning, growing, and discovering new techniques (at least they should be!). It's okay to go through 6-month seasons of weariness, like I just did. It doesn't mean I'm not still His daughter, it doesn't mean I don't love Him, it just means I'm learning to endure.

I've been looking for rest in the wrong places. I've been looking to find rest in other people, places that are important to me, or activities I thoroughly enjoy doing. But when I think I'm rested because I've done those things, or talked to those people, or visited those places-- I still feel weary. 

So here I am-- flawed, imperfect, but saved by His grace. He is my strength, the perfecter of my faith, and the breath in my lungs. I know these things to be true in my head, and now I pray that He translates them to my heart as I seek to find rest by enduring in Him.