CORRIDORS

Not every place traveled toward is intended.

__________________ 

For most of my life I had misunderstood that forward motion was an agreement with what was to come.

But ours is a destination not always intended, at least not by us.

I imagine my life in corridors, most traveled with an eagerness that made digesting sometimes hard to do—
A white-runnered aisle with the love of my life standing at the other end.
Doorways leading to opportunities to breathe new life into places neglected and unloved.
Auditoriums filled with those who had come to seek something bigger than themselves.
Emergency rooms encased in the excruciating anticipation of the “what now” and “what next.”

Surgical oncology, the sign said with an arrow pointing to the left. Letters big enough to see them at the very end of the corridor as patients walked in:

“Put your mask on and take the elevator around the corner to the fourth floor and follow the signs.” Me, freshly bathed in Chlorhexidine Gluconate, dressed in the cutest pair of hospital scrubs. I have discovered the skin is not so sterile a thing. Neither is the mind.

While my thoughts, in this moment, were kindred to the resistance of a dog pulling intently on a leash, my body took one step and then the other toward something ominous and unknown.

Wrapped in the memory of more difficult days, I grab on and hold tightly to a profoundly beautiful and difficult Word—

“Shall I not drink from the cup of suffering that my Father intended?”

Can you just imagine what would have become of this Earth had the humanness of resistance over-ruled?

Every seemingly small choice to circumvent God not only shifts the trajectory of our own purpose but [in ways unseen] changes the outcome of those who desperately need to see His grace embodied in you.

At the onset of this cancer diagnosis I wrote a piece called, Kicking and Screaming. There were important epiphanies in it, as I recall—

“My kicking and screaming may be necessary for a moment, but how fast I choose to lean into what is intended determines the pace at which I reach my own personal victory.” 

It appears our “suffering” no matter how large or small, is not always intended for our own transformation but for the transformation of those looking on.

In recent days I’ve watched my friends walk through hard things, sure-footed with their eyes fixed on what the world would define as anything but “the prize.”

We’ve all walked down the corridor of the impossible and have become better for it. None of us walk the corridor alone.

Embedded in our circuitry is this onboard filing system of responses—Angry. Uneasy. Fascination. Disbelief. It strikes me in these out-of-control moments that I am the librarian of my emotions and I get to choose exactly how this will read, page by page, chapter by chapter, until the story of the hard season is written in a way that makes me gasp—
in the looking through and back,
in the coming and going,
in each human exchange—
so that the me that walks each corridor is one that is at once exquisitely vulnerable and impossibly serene. 

So many times in my life I have prayed for God to show up with some profound revelation, to open doors in obvious ways and shove me through them. Sometimes, I’ve barely had time to catch my breath.

His is a rhythm that is furious like howling wind.
We do our best to keep pace. 

I like to think that what I’m asked to walk through is God’s signal that something fresh is coming, no matter how many twists and turns. Simultaneously, I grieve the losses while the old dies away and new territory unfolds.

[Yesterday’s anointing is not sufficient for today. Today requires its own revelation]

My leaning in is a signal to God that I am ready for the fresh anointing, ready for the very thing that I’ve been praying for.

Isn’t it remarkable that it is ours to choose to stay in one place [body, mind, spirit] and stifle our own growth?

The corridor is narrow but the territory that lies beyond is glorious and unending.

The possibilities are only limitless for those who do not limit themselves—
Through being unwilling to hear the message.
By being blinded from noticing the signs.
In being inflexible in reinventing how and what we think.
In being unable to let go of things that once defined who we are.

I do not begrudge the corridors of my life, the ones I am required to walk alone. One step in front of the other. With only the challenge of the process made known.

The outcome is available exclusively to those who believe it is waiting. The belief sometimes must be enough.

Sometimes the corridors are long and seemingly unending. We pray and wait. But sometimes we don’t wait long enough. We satisfy our own desire, dumbing down the grander vision for something that can be more easily or quickly obtained.

“Not yet,” are two of the most powerful words in the English language. Powerful…and painful if you’re waiting for something badly desired.

Trust the corridor is waiting. Maybe it’s been there all along.

NOTES:

Last week, as I was leaving church, I had a moment to myself before the crowds.

This is my corridor moment. The one I want most to identify with.

He lights up every corridor so that I can find my way.

May this be your reminder that though it appears you walk solo, you are never alone.

*Each light bulb that ultimately spells His name is a representation of a life given to Jesus. I think that’s beautiful.