I recently read Lauren Winner's Still. She wrote it in the midst of going through a divorce. She talked about how she felt like she was in the middle of her faith life. She was mulling over the fact that there isn't a middle voice in the English language. When I read the book, this whole idea of being stuck in the middle was an abstract concept I couldn't wrap my mind around.
Then, last week, my dad was diagnosed with lung cancer. My dad, who had never smoked a day in his life, who's biked a crazy lot of miles. And before I knew it, I was stuck in that same middle I'd just read about.
I don't have words for this place, but it's the same place the world was between Jesus' death and resurrection. I don't know where to go from here. Describing it as a season of waiting doesn't seem adequate.
During this past week, I've had moments where it seems like my life is going on with me. I'm there, but I'm not there. Sometimes it's as if I'm watching the rest of the world from behind glass, wishing I could touch it.
Yesterday started off as one of those days where being off this month felt like a curse. I had to do something. I went outside to pick crab apples for bread. I found myself studying them as I picked them.
All the vibrant shades of red and pink were so bright against the grayness of the rest of the world.
I came back in with my bin of crab apples. It took every ounce of strength to chop them up and add the lemon juice. But I couldn't shake the idea that I had to keep taking that next step.
When you're in that middle space between death and resurrection, sometimes the most worshipful thing you can do is keep doing the next thing.
