To the sister with an aching heart, to the sister who is tired of waiting,

You’ve heard the words said a thousand times before and I say this knowing it to be true because I’ve read them before, too. And nothing soothes it, does it?  Nothing quenches that ache within your chest that just never seems to go away, does it?  Nothing provides balm for the tender spot that has been waiting to be attended to for what feels like ages, does it?

I’ve filled up pages and pages in my journals, filled up word documents and notes with thoughts and feelings that I could compile into a halfway decent blog post one day.  But it all just falls to naught when I compare it to the ache within my chest. The words just fall short.  

There is nothing like it, that achey waiting for something and someone that is not, has not, and will never be promised to us.  There is nothing like the period of waiting for what may never even come to be.  There is no telling what struggle and temptation and pain might lie ahead if it did.  And there is no telling what struggle and temptation and pain might lie ahead if it did not.
 
It is an ebb and flow—an ache and a fear and a hoping and a waiting.  It rises and falls like the tides, never quite leaving: only subsiding at certain times and overflowing at others.  

This is all to say I know it, sister.  I know it well, and I have no words to share with you other than that.  That and one phrase that I heard recently that brought a little relief to my heart: Adam experienced the ache for Eve before the fall.

A sigh of relief.  It is good, that ache.  It is good because Adam experienced it even in the perfection of the garden, even among the glory of Eden, even when he had full communion with God.  

Sit with that just for a moment.

The ache remains.  We are achey creatures, longing, groaning, awaiting redemption and heaven and communion and eternal adoration of the Lover.  Oh but yes, the ache remains.  And perhaps it will always, for we will always want more of him, we will always hunger for him for the rest of our eternal lives.

I suppose my only consolation, my only encouragement banded together in this dull frame of words is this: do not stop yourself from feeling the ache because it is the pathway to the utter depths of intimacy with the Lord himself.  

So just feel it. Feel it all too intensely and then let him ask you in the depths of your heart: “Where does it hurt?”

And be not afraid to answer truthfully and to let him touch it even though it hurts like hell.  Show it to him—show him how big and how dangerous and how cavernous that ache is.  And sister, leave it there in his wounded hands. 

Even though it hurts to stare into the well of endless ache, he desires for you to name it, to know it, to surrender it. Echo the prayer of the woman at the well, “Sir, give me this water to drink.” Let the Mother intercede for you: “She has no wine.” Ask the hard questions and wait for the door to be opened. He is a promise-keeper. By the grace of our good God, I believe that he will help you endure it.  He will help you persevere and he will give you the courage to love in the midst of this inner tension.  

In your childlike voice, I invite you to pray this prayer with me:  Jesus, will you wait with me in this Nazareth, in this Gethsemane?

He will, I just know he will.  He is, in fact.  He is waiting with you and staring into your eyes, seeing it all.  And when you ask him if anything good can come out of Nazareth, he is so ready to answer that question. He is sanctifying you here, in the midst of this fire. It is preparatory, it is impenetrable, it is his divine work.  

Courage, sister.  All that is hidden shall one day be revealed.  Wait with the Mother, wait with the Son—they are nearer to our ache than we are ourselves.

Grace will meet us here.

xx.