Even now as I write this, I feel unsettled. Ungrounded. Which is even more disturbing to me, because if I'm honest and admit it, I am a person of great spiritual pride. C.S. Lewis says it is the worst kind of pride, and most of the time I walk around with it because, since God is so loving and good to me, I easily assume that I am on the road to holiness and have most of the answers figured out- even about Him.
Yikes. I am twenty-six; obviously I do not have things figured out. Thankfully He is patient and merciful, and reminds me through uncomfortable experiences like this one that A) I do stumble and am often helpless to comfort or reassure myself and B) there is very, very much that I don't know.
But while I feel His Presence here with me, gently guiding me, I am still keenly aware of this chilly, nervous feeling in my gut. Hmmmm. Isn't the Presence of The Lord supposed to immediately drive that away? Aren't I supposed to feel peaceful? How is it then that I know He is here but I still feel afraid? And what exactly am I even afraid of?
I can say, without going into detail, that I have been wrestling with a relatively minor but still very emotionally difficult situation the past few days, and I know that has something to do with my anxiety. And the weird dream last night (again, not going into detail. Just know that it was very detailed and was related to the aforementioned difficult situation.) So from a secular standpoint, it would be possible to write this off altogether as a product of those factors and my pregnancy hormones. But on a broader scale, I also just feel afraid of the uncertain future, and of the major changes coming to our lives soon. Afraid of being a parent, especially to a newborn. Afraid of the pain I know I will feel when my husband deploys again next year. Afraid, always in the back of my mind, for his safety. And above all, afraid of somehow drifting away from God.
Yesterday we went to the North Carolina Museum of Art in Raleigh, and one particular painting really tugged at me. It was The Flight into Egypt by American artist John Singer Sargent, relatively small and dark compared to all of the grand, lavish colors around it, and tucked near the back of the gallery. But it was its darkness that spoke to my heart. Or rather, helped me to hear God speaking to my heart. It looks to be that eerie time at night after the beauty of dusk when the last light is fading and most go into the light and shelter of their homes. Mary sits on the donkey, their only comfort, leaning against Joseph and looking tired and disheartened. (At least that is how I read her body; you can't see her face.) Joseph looks exhausted but resolute, with a definite heaviness in his stance and expression. All you can see of the baby Jesus is the vague outline of His head in Mary's arm and the bright glow of His halo. The donkey looks near collapse too.
This portrayal of the Holy Family comforted me, more so than other representations where they appear to be traveling in relative peace and contentment. This painting showed me that their journey was difficult and dangerous, uncomfortable and fearful. I believe that despite the direct communication they received from angels, they were also at times discouraged and afraid. And tired. Just "over it," as I say sometimes. And all of this while they were so very near to God as to be physically holding His Son in their arms.
But they persevered, and their lives give me hope. When I am afraid, I can remember them and the hardships they certainly faced, and know that while I do feel shaken I am still loved. And always guided, even if I am sometimes afraid along the way.
