In the Belly of the Whale
Having had our eleventh child three months ago gave me pause to consider Johah in the belly of the whale. It’s not that I’ve been sent to preach repentance to an errant peoples, but more so, that I can relate to the notion of being swallowed up, whole
Having had our eleventh child three months ago gave me pause to consider Johah in the belly of the whale. It’s not that I’ve been sent to preach repentance to an errant peoples, but more so, that I can relate to the notion of being swallowed up, whole, by God’s will and His way. It’s been about six months since I’ve posted her on Wristwatches, and there’s been more than a few instances in which I’ve considered putting the entire endeavour to bed. The reasons have been legion, and varied, and fickle and on occasion, legitimate. The fact that it’s been six months since posting is probably gbraood reason alone to walk away.
But then again, there’s a practical logic to ending it all that doesn’t gel with the ideology I’ve espoused here, over the years, as I’ve extolled those with ears to hear it to fight tooth and nail to preserve their disciplines: spiritual, creative and physical. To concede some sort of defeat and decide that I’d never do this again, despite both the commitment and the will, would be disappointing at best, and hypocrisy at worst. There may well be a time when the project, and its values, lie contrary to my way of life, or manner of seeing things. I hope to God this day never arrives, as it would indicate a breakdown, dysfunction or some sort of emotional malignancy of catastrophic proportion.
Of course imposter syndrome whispers into the ear from time to time, particularly in time of hardship, crisis and confusion. What right have you, to extol the sorts of values and ideals which, on any given day, you struggle to embody, let alone exemplify? Well, dear reader, what right have I? In all seriousness, nonetheless, perhaps some sort of pact is in order, whereby should this project disappear, you can consider it a distress signal of sorts. It would be one thing to give up writing, and posting. But another thing entirely to repudiate the entire body of work, set it on fire and let the ashes drift away in the wind. Let’s avoid that particular approach to self-destruction, shall we?
But indeed, the arrival of our beautiful, eleventh child ushered in a new assortment of challenges that should be typical when dealing with the magnitude, responsibility and wonder of a new life, a new soul to bring closer to Christ, as best as one can. If having a child isn’t life changing, what is? Thus, the mind drifting to Jonah, trapped in the dark, wet confinement of the leviathan. Being propelled to a fate, a responsibility he would rather have fled, as he had attempted to. And no, I haven’t attempted to flee, should you be wondering. My failings are manifold, but haven’t yet included permanent abandonment.
Thus, there has been the wonderful, pressing toil and tumult of family life that has kept me from writing, journalling, striving to think clearly and consistently enough to bring words to the page. The caveat of course, being that my own labours have been negligible compared to my beloved bride, who is able to rise, valiantly, irrevocably, to new heights of sacrifice and self denial to meet the needs that flourish around us. In that sense, when I am humbled by her resolve, I sometimes do, in a manner of speaking, try “to flee to Tarshish from the presence of the Lord.” Anyone who lives in the presence of formidable virtue could be tempted to inertia, when you realise how far you still have to go in your journey.
Thus, we press on, humbled, inspired, yearning for holiness, seeking it in the tumult of the day. At my worst, I flee, though distraction, impulsivity, sloth. At my best, I light a candle in the belly of the fish and let the Lord carry me forth, joyfully, knowing that his will is as simple as it is demanding. I know that a hidden life can be holy. And when I see clearly, I know that little else matters.