Sometimes it is a slow dawning, a creeping realisation that all her moments have become grey again. Not a soft dove’s wing grey but an iron grey., hard and shot through with rusty metallic tears. She knows this place. Knows its acrid smell and the taste of burnt dreams. Dreams which when taken out in the cold light of day are thrown on the bonfire of hope, lit by the spark of illusion. Once more there is no God. Once more there is no rescuer.
Job pleaded with and raged against God. He asked how can you be just and take my family? How can you be loving and leave me homeless? How can you have compassion and see me suffer? God told him to remember his place, to be grateful that he was born at all. That he had anything to lose at all was by God’s grace and in his gift.
A hard lesson but still true. I am owed nothing. I came with nothing and I will leave with the same.
It’s surprisingly hard to have nothing in the West though. I left my home with a suitcase, a laptop and a handbag and within a month had too much for the room I was sleeping at my parents. Once I moved into my first shared house I accumulated towels and bedding for guests. I bought plates and cups for when my family visited so that I still seemed like the mother they knew, someone who wouldn’t keep a chipped cup or eat from mismatched crockery. Someone with standards regardless of her situation. Someone they could recognise.
So now as I contemplate my 5th move in 2 years I realise how hard it is to let go of things even though they came freely to me and presumably will do again. I am grasping a 15 year old washing machine to my breast as if another one will never cross my path again and the only reason for that is fear mixed with a powerful sense of not being deserving of good things.
Cutting through to my clarity is essential. I want to be light on my feet. I want to be able to respond to life and what it has to offer. I want pleasure. I want joy. I want fun. I want laughter. I want exploration. I want travel. I want love.
I will let go and let it in.