There is this temptation to take matters into our own hands when things are ambiguous rather than trust in God. The Israelites were prime example of this, saving leftover manna rather than trust in their daily provision in one instance (Exodus 16:19-20). And then making a golden calf an object of worship when Moses delayed coming off of Mount Sinai (Exodus 32).  I am one of those people who leaps to action to get something done. I can't stand when things are murky and there's something within my reach to (seemingly) move things forward. It's a pride issue (believing I can manufacture something to happen), but it's ultimately fear that is beneath this. I'm fearful there will be no provision. 

When stripped of all my faculties to do something on my own, there's a vulnerability that exposes that, I am after all, needy. And while that would ordinarily send me into hiding, the reminder that the God of this universe cares for even me (Psalm 8:4-5) - the once wretched, still sinful me - I feel safe, now able to more bravely face what I cannot yet see. 

It is both the blessing and curse of the introvert to mask her feelings to others.  My whole world may have imploded, but my demeanor would never betray this. I'm so good it's scary sometimes. I wish I could be better at emoting, but the retreat of my inner world is far more alluring. It's safe and protected. My pride remains intact. My vulnerability is hidden. I can't be judged or rejected.

In this effort to so carefully craft my disclosure, there results a weariness I did not intend. If we are to share in each other's burdens (Galatians 6:2), it's best to make known that there are burdens I carry (tightly, and close to my heart). It's an exercise of faith that works against every fiber of my being. But it points to the One who ultimately bears our burden, and I can't hold back the emotion which comes from that.

I was (gently) told in grad school that my writing was too lofty. It was the kind that made for sublime prose as an art history major, but was far too pretentious for writing on classroom discourse. "Be concise and concrete," my professors said (i.e., cut out the flowery stuff). But I loved my long, meandering sentences and found them hard to abandon (still do). Stripped down to less made me feel exposed, bare. Yet in the rationing of words, I was forced to say what I meant, and say it directly.

I can be largely evasive when it comes to saying what I really mean. I'd rather you love me for my eloquence than to be frank about what truly is. But what gain do I have in pretentiousness, only to mask my imperfections? Quite concisely, I'm messed up and broken! There, I said it!

(Run and cover...)