I woke up this morning facing Psalm 40, a copy of which I have posted near my bed with the intent of waking up and reading it or at least waking up and thinking about it.
However, statistics show not only that 47% of statistics are wrong, but that 29 out of November’s 30 days I did not look at the verses of Psalm 40, read them, or think about them. I did, in actuality, often look at them and think about reading them or look at them and think about thinking about them.
My personal statistics also show that then, having tired myself out by thinking about reading and thinking about thinking within the first 30 seconds of opening my eyes, I more often than not burrow into my seven pillow slumber fortress and hit my intuitive snooze button. I remain there until the last possible second which allows me to still take a shower, find some collaboration of garments that match or at least “go” and also don’t betray the secret I keep with myself that I have in fact gained the forewarned fifteen, and scamper out the door in time to be late for whatever is first on the day’s agenda.
December’s stats are looking much like November’s.
Today, I dart out the door after a whirlwind of girls who also chose to get ready for the day in the last possible seconds, probably for the thrill, if not for the competitive flavor with which it enhances our domestic relationships: I mean, who will get to the shower first?
So this morning, the Friends and I are all heading out the door at the same time, same destination. Or so I think. I scurry along the hall, and the Friends are not in sight.
This is where a Normal Person would hurry and catch up. As long as we’re talking Normal, Normal Friends would have waited, but I guess in this case, I should probably just hurry and catch up.
But instead I begin to boil. This is not the first time I’ve found myself in such a situation. My temperature actually rises. I consider taking off a layer, but I am still considering trying to catch up. Something stops me. Can’t define it. They’ve left me and I can’t risk hurrying to only be hurt again. But this is petty, I tell myself, just hurry.
This is where Normal People hurdle the obstacle. The People Who Have Read Psalm 40 and got out of bed right away were probably ready to go when their friends were ready to go. Even The People Who Read Psalm 40 and still chose to dawdle probably have the determination to just scurry and catch up with Friends.
I, though, did not read Psalm 40 this morning, and I am not thinking about it. I am thinking about me. I feel stupid hurrying, scurrying, whatever you want to call it—I feel like a squirrel. I don’t want to gather the Friends like acorns. I want them to have the courtesy to wait for me. I want to walk with the Friends, no obstacles involved. But they are gone and this is not an option.
So I’m boiling because I feel hurt and I’m boiling because I feel stupid for feeling hurt and I’m boiling because I feel stupid for boiling. I watch this wave of emotion rush over me, and it erodes the pathetic remaining isthmus, and the peninsula of Renee breaks off. I am now an Island. I am not a touristy tropical island, the one that you want to come visit on vacation. I am a mean spirited Island, the kind inhabited by a (far from politically correct) tribe of Cannibals. And there are dark clouds forming. Although in this fallen world Islands happen, Storms happen, Cannibals happen, and we are used to this, I am shocked at the rate at which my Storm develops.
This particular day, the Friends and I are all off to an assembly of sorts, dubbed “Convocation” by my college. I reach the Chapel that houses Convocation mere seconds after the Inconsiderate Friends, and I watch them take seats. There is room for me.
I sit in the back and lick my wounds. I am an Island, and I have Cannibals. I wouldn’t want to infect the glorious United States of Friendship with my flesh-eating emotional state. And it serves them right. This is where my three-year-old reasoning skills kick in—me punishing myself with isolation will surely cause them to pity me and apologize. Or something.
And I am again shocked at the rate at which my Storm has come and the rate at which it has intensified. I search for any means of placating my anxious angry angst. Even alliteration doesn’t do it.
Post convocation, I walk to my room. It’s amazing that walking—pacing in particular, but walking to a destination too—induces forward thinking. I walk and realize the gravest of realizations. I face that particular moment in time when I admit to myself where I really am. I name the latitude and longitude of my Island. I name my Storm. I name my Sin.
Sometimes the best way to define a Sin is to declare what it is not. Narrow down the possible options. Process of elimination. The multiple choice introspection exam.
A. Stubbornness. B. Pride. C. Bitterness D. All of the above
And it is clear, except that it is not. I have to think through this. I know not only in my cognitive test-taking thought process but in my heart that this is bitterness. Sure, bitterness is manifesting itself in my stubborn actions, and sure, as we all know, pride is at the root of it all, but this, this is Bitterness.
Bitterness…The Cannibals of this Island are brutal. They will gnaw you raw. They will numb you. They are vengeful buggers, and they will not leave you alone until they have chewed your heart to shreds or until you exterminate them with the decision to give a little, give a lot and bend to something that looks a lot like love.
But it is hard to give when all you have to give is heart-shreds. There are but fragments left after this morning’s simple hurt, last night’s minor pain, last week’s vague ache, the dull throb of the entire semester… It is easier to sit in the back of the Chapel and lick those wounded remnants than to sit with Inconsiderate Friends. What I have conveniently and inconveniently forgotten is that the licking of wounds causes further infection.
So I am back in my room licking and realizing when the phone rings. It is another Friend—one completely uninvolved in the morning, for she is in Chicago. And she doesn’t know why she’s calling. I tell her she must be calling because I need her.
Friend, I have just realized that I am Bitter. And not just a little bit. This is not New Bitter. This is Mature Bitter. Bitterness has rooted itself deeply and strongly in some of my relationships. It is so rooted that it springs to life with just the smallest dose of miracle grow. It is as if Little Shop of Horrors was rewritten about me, instead of about the communists. This plant is out of control, these cannibals are out of control, and my heart—the host—is being sacrificed.
And Uninvolved Friend says something peculiar. She says something idealistic: Aren’t you excited to respond to this and change it?
I am not in an ideal state of mind. I am Bitter, remember? Excited? Nope. Not even close. That is not the word I would choose to describe this moment. She wants to know what word I would use to describe it.
Describe it? I have just been rear-ended. Bitterness is operating a bumper-car, and it has knocked the wind out of me. Deer-in-headlights, maybe. I’m stunned to silence. I’m stunned to stillness. I don’t know where to go, what to do. If I were in a car, I’d grab the oh-Shit handle, but I’m not even behind the wheel.
Uninvolved Friend reminds me that silence and stillness are often necessary for God to get through to us. Then she says, with apologies for the cliché, to open the Word.
I don’t want to “open the Word.” I haven’t prayed in days and my bible is dusty. I just want to let go of the oh-Shit handle, climb from the passenger seat into the driver’s seat and flip a U-turn, shift into four-wheel drive, and careen myself up the walls of this pathetic bitter valley. It’s suffocating down here.
And then it is clear. I haven’t even opened the Word. I recall the Word from that one day in November, and probably also from the seasons of my life when my bible wasn’t dusty.
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“He put a new song in my mouth,
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A hymn of praise to our God.”
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- Psalm 40:3a
I haven’t climbed out of anywhere, turned anywhere, exterminated anything, reversed geographical shifts, or involved myself in any way with a metaphor for what Christians like to call “works.”
God has put a new song in my mouth. That song is a hymn of praise. The new song was composed on a cross to replace the bitter song. And it is here. All I have to do is drop the bitter sheet music and sing what the Spirit has allowed me to play by ear.
It is here. And I want to sing it.
