11.15 // Storms

Last night I had one of my reoccurring dreams:
I’m at home, going throughout my normal routine, when I look out the window and see a dark, swilring tornado. Its hurtling toward us, tearing through corn fields and rows of soybeans. Usually, the rest of the sky is light, so the storm feels totally out of place— but nonetheless terrifying.
I grab the kids one at a time as the house begins to shake and the rooms grow dark. We huddle and bunker down. The sound grows louder and louder, whooshing and crashing as the air becomes increasingly stinging and dusty— like a sandstorm. We are wince and hold tight all together.
And suddenly, its over.
Nothing is ever destroyed, and we are always alright. But the experience leaves me breathless.
And then I wake up.

I’ve had this dream dozens of times. And, without sounding too “Jungian-dream-analysis-y,” it seems that this dream returns when everything is swirling; when life is loud; when there doesn’t seem to be enough time so we rush and panic and finally lay flat on the ground as to avoid being run over.

In this time of examen, I recall seasons where these torrential winds have rushed over us from the outside:
when we sold our house and our cars and moved our babies to a new state, where we didn’t know anyone; when the kids got terribly, terribly sick while we were traveling, and fear turned us totally upside down; when we were rejected by our work and our church and we wondered if we would ever belong anywhere.

A twister of change and turbulence, rushing over us from the outside.

But, more often than not, the true gale force of swirling anxiety comes upon us on the inside, rather from something outside of us.
St. Theresa of Avila wrote about the “interior castle,” the many rooms and spaces within us that become filled with Christ and eventually bring us into perfect Love. And when I re-imagine the tornado dream and the days of shaking inner wind, I picture a twister within the rooms of my heart: hope shattering like precious glass, worthiness tipping over and smashing in two, peace and joy bring whirled away with everything else.

For me, the interior tornados of shame and fear are destructive in ways that the exterior storms could never be.
These inner storms are invisible and unpredictable.
They occur when, from the outside, our lives seem promising and bright.

Our natural instinct is to grab those we love and find an isolated place and find some sort of safety. But most often, the pace of our lives to not offer this kind of reprieve. We have to keep going, stay out in the open world, and contain the hidden cyclone of anxiety or fear or self-doubt.

Blessed are the brothers and sisters that hold us in these times— who join us in the bunker and share their own stories of turbulence, who shield us from the self-hatred that always seems to rise up in the tail end of the storm.

In February 2013, I was in a particularly devastating season that caused a lot of damage to my own health in every way— mentally, emotional, and physically, too. My soul felt like it was in the midst of the tornado dream, except the cyclone hovered above me and within me, and I could not escape it.
After going to several doctors, I eventually came to grips with my own inner storm. But calming the raging winds within is a lot more difficult than treating an infection or broken bone.
There is no protocol.
There is no standardized approach.
The healing is nonlinear and very slow.

But when I look back at that painful time, I am convinced that the single most beneficial thing I did was share my pain with others who loved me. And the healing began when they did not try to fix me or downplay this hidden, seemingly illogical experience or even prescribe some kind of solution.
Healing happened when they listened and held and then shared, too— when they met me in this makeshift vulnerable space. And they kept showing up, showing me through their own stories and embodied compassion that healing is actually possible.
Life can begin again after storms— even the really, really big ones.
And we are stronger and more aware of our true substance after they blow through us.

I remember talking to a dear friend on the phone one night and sharing my deep fear that I will never find myself again. And he told me, “It feels like that now. And that drowning, undoing feeling is absolutely devastating. But, it will end. I know that doesn’t mean anything in this moment. But, I promise. It will end.”

There is peace in knowing that tornadoes outside of us and within us will pass.
We have dark nights of the soul— but joy comes in the morning.
We are sleepless and restless, and at times, hopeless— but there is a dawn coming.
We may feel used up and out of time— but His mercies are new each day.

When it feels like healing will never happen and the pain will linger for our whole lives, we must cling to hope. Our prayers continue, even at a whisper.
And we keep offering up gratitude, even if it feels weak or repetitive or ineffective.
It will end. This, too, will pass.

During days like this, I am thankful that the scriptures offer us a starting point, an invitation. As I begin the examen with gratitude, I find myself hearing David’s words from Psalm 46:
God is our refuge and strength,
    an ever-present help in trouble.
Therefore we will not fear, though the earth give way
    and the mountains fall into the heart of the sea,
though its waters roar and foam
    and the mountains quake with their surging.
There is a river whose streams make glad the city of God,
    the holy place where the Most High dwells.
God is within her, she will not fall;
    God will help her at break of day.

When my heart is caught up in the wreckage or heaving from the pulls of this life, I find my center in this prophetic poetry. The Lord is steadfast. He is strong enough to count as safe.