Feeling in control, of course, brings its own kind of peace. But it's never a giving peace. And it leaves a latent terror asleep, like a coiled snake ready to spring if disturbed.
Brokenness lets us feel that terror. When we admit, deeply and emotionally, that we cannot control what we most want, overwhelming horror sweeps into our soul. We feel nothing deeper. The dark night of the soul begins. We lower our head, retreat into the safety of aloneness, and wail in sheer agony. It's impossible to believe that sheer delight is waiting to greet us. Someone else needs to believe it for us.
If we get with a friend, if we embrace all that we are in another's presence, in the presence of someone who listens to the Spirit, soon we discover that the lights went out only in the Lower Room.
There is another room, a better one, and even as we continue to wail, we realize our Upper Room is softly illuminated, only by a simple candle but with a flame that cannot be snuffed.
It may take days, months, even years to adjust our eyes to the gentle light. We're so used to the neon billboards of Las Vegas that candlelight in a quiet room seems dim, even unappealing. If we could return to the dazzling lights of a brighter Lower Room, we would. In His mercy, the Spirit keeps that room dark, often by seeming not to hear us as we pray. He walls us in so we cannot get our life together as we want. He leads us into the desert.
Eventually we pray, tentatively at first, pleadingly, without much confidence. But then we notice that our prayers shift from the prayers of petition to prayers of communion. Being with God becomes a pleasure, at some point our chief delight. Jealous feelings toward people more blessed seem to weaken as we learn to sit quietly in His presence, to value quietness with God.
The Bible suddenly means more. We read that nothing can separate us from Christ's love and we fall to our knees: "Lord, You're beautiful!" We've never said it before, not with quite that passion. Deep in our hearts, we begin to realize we're worshiping, we're delighting in God, we're in the Presence, and eavesdropping on the Trinity as They talk about us.
"I chose him."
"I died for him"
"I'm still working on him."
"He's Ours! It's almost time for the party!"
I have become comfortable with being walled in by the hand of God, and relish that time alone in the dimly lit room, the gentle breeze of the Spirit almost imperceptibly billowing the curtain, and the small but strong and steady candlelight.
And I am filled with gratitude for the affliction that brought me there, and reminded of Much Afraid's two companions, hand picked by her beloved Shepherd, on her journey to the High Places. At the end of the journey, Sorrow and Suffering's true names are revealed as Joy and Peace.
