The day I walked out on my family…

And then I can’t believe it but I grabbed my purse and keys and walked right out the door, without a word.

It felt terrifying and sickening and freeing and thrilling all at once.

All week it had built. Responsibilities. Company. Engagements. Needs. And I had smiled. And I had welcomed. And I had prayed. And I had studied. And I had cooked and cleaned and taught and read and listened and bathed them and kissed them and loved him and picked up a gazillion stupid items off the stupid filthy floors and folded towers of their laundry and then that one day they were all grumpy–all of them–and that was just it. Enough already.

Terrible words ran through my mind.

But none of them left my mouth. I fled, silent, so the kids didn’t even know, and it was all of 5 minutes I was gone, but it still felt daring and dark and dangerous because I didn’t take my phone and away I drove, not knowing where, and I knew, just for a moment, he would wonder where I went.

And maybe someone would notice: She’s crumbling.

So I pulled over all of five blocks down the road, at the park, and sat and prayed, knowing it would pass but still somehow trapped in dark thoughts–terrible ones. How can his lies get so wrapped around our minds? How can I KNOW I’m in the middle of spiritual warfare yet be so utterly incapable of crawling out?  How can a silent battle be so brutal?

And that was just it. Silence. I couldn’t say the things I felt. Not without lasting damage. But the silence kept everything in. Dark thoughts, kept in darkness, fester.

Light comes in through letting it out … loud. 

And so I said it all, out loud. To God. All the dark thoughts. The terrible ones. And out it spewed, loud, into the empty car, and the sun slanted in through the side window and suddenly the darkness was … gone.

And it wasn’t all perfect. But the power of darkness is gone when the light comes in. And somehow it was easier to sort through it all once it all came out. Like pulling out the contents of a drawer in order to organize. Emptying a closet to toss out what you don’t need. You can’t sort through it when it’s all shoved in the darkness.

And so confession–out loud–lets in the light and lets Him sort through it and lets Him shed His love over it all and let’s His wisdom give discernment: What to share with others and what to let go. And so I returned. And the words, calmer now, more gentle, more kind, more loving, were spoken. Truth and grace. And we broke through. Fog lifted (he’d felt it too). Joy returned. Clarity restored.

That night we read The Silver Chair and the witch, the Queen of the Underworld, slowly pulls Scrubb and Jill and Puddleglum into her spell, getting them to believe that there is no Aslan, there is no sun, there is no hope. And at first they resisted, for they knew they were being enchanted, but then of Jill it said:

“This time it didn’t come into her head that she was being enchanted, for now the magic was at its full strength; and of course the more enchanted you get, the more certain you feel that you are not enchanted at all.” (153)

And Jeff stopped reading, mid-sentence, and said: “Yes. The more we are entangled in the enemy’s deception, the more certain we feel that we are not deceived at all.”

And so what do we do? Get alone with God and get loud. Speak out. Confess. Pray. Read truth out loud.

So while I don’t recommend running out on your family, a bit of alone time in the car might do a bit of good, if you’re all tangled up in confusion or despair. Silence is like darkness. Let in the light by letting it out … loud. 

{Remember this from last year. Praying this can be freedom for someone as you face the week. Have a blessed Monday, and thanks for reading.}