Friday, March 14, 2014
I used to be a pit girl. I've kept it quiet for a long time, because I've been scared of what those who have never been in a pit may say or think. But for the sake of other pit people, it's time to come clean, because I know what it is like to find yourself in a pit and fear that you are all alone and that no one understands. So, for those of you who have never found yourself in a pit, I praise God for the testimony of faithfulness you have to the Lord. Thank you. For those of you who have since been rescued from the pit, I celebrate with you the victory you have found in Jesus as I hope you do with me. And for those of you who may still currently find yourself in a pit, I offer you encouragement that you are not alone. Though you may feel like you are, don't believe the lies that the enemy whispers to you. There are many of us who have been pulled up from the pit, and there is hope available for you, too. My heart aches in telling you that it may take reaching the lowest point of your pit to find rescue, but it is there for you, and when you finally find it, it is beautiful and redeeming, and I can't wait to rejoice with you as well! This is for you.
Before my pit days, I was a confident Christian. I was a spiritual leader and I enjoyed hearing what the Lord had to share with me. But very suddenly, all of that changed. I couldn't tell you exactly how or why, but it did. I began struggling with sin and doubt that have never had a place in my life before. I became distracted by other voices and before I knew it, I was digging myself into a pit, and I didn't know how exactly to put down the shovel.
Sometimes, I was ok with my pit-digging. It really wasn't a pit at the time; it was just a small hole. I enjoyed the release from trying so hard to be good. I liked getting a little dirty. But a lot of times, I was ashamed. I knew that I was being hypocritical. I was professing to live a clean life. I sang songs and prayed prayers and taught Scripture. No one knew I was digging myself a pit. But I knew. And God knew. And that was enough.
I knew that I was stuck, that I needed to get out, and that God was my only hope of doing so. But how could I face Him when I had completely rebelled and then lied about it to other people? I tried my hardest to make myself presentable enough to ask for His help. I tried to wipe off the dirt from my hands, but all I had available was my shirt. I tucked back the wisps of hair that had pulled themselves from my ponytail in all the strain and sweat. I even tried to pack down some of the dirt I had dug loose so I could stand a little taller in my pit, not so far down. I thought that, if I could show God how I was already working on getting myself out and making myself clean again, I would be a little more deserving of His help. But my denial of my current circumstances would not allow me to admit my need for complete rescue. So, I kept digging.
Soon, it began getting dark in my pit. As I dug deeper and deeper, it became harder for me to see the top. It was lonely and quiet in my pit, so I began to pay more attention to the words in my head than to the Words of the Father. These words told me I was hopeless. That I was not worthy of rescue. That this was my identity now; I had forfeited any other identity I once held. I was now a forever pit girl. And I believed them, because I had dug so far down, I could not hear anything else. So I kept digging. For three years, filled with fear and guilt and doubt, I kept digging.
And then, finally, I hit the bottom. I had not before realized the beauty of rock bottom, though, at the time, it only looked like despair. I put my shovel down for a rest. I had every intention of picking it back up again, but for the moment, I stopped to reflect at how far I had come. I strained my aching neck to arch upward, squinting to make out the top of my pit, now just a speck of light. And I realized in that moment, that though the words in my head told me that I could stop digging whenever I wanted and pull myself out, they were wrong. In fact, everything they had told me-about my circumstances, about myself, about God- had been wrong. I had been deceived. I looked down at my hands: the skin raw, bleeding, and blistered. I took notice of the stiff pain in my arms, my hunched back and my sore shoulders which I had grown so accustomed to. The words in my head told me this is where I belonged, that this is what I deserved. And they were right, because I'm the one who dug the pit in the first place. But I remembered life before the pit, and I longed to be back where I was before. I used to think that if I could prove to God that I was worthy of rescuing, then I could ask for help. But there, at the bottom of the pit, I knew that there was no amount of good I could do to could earn my rescue. So I did the only thing I could: I cried out to the Lord.
My voice was weak and shaky; it had been so long since I had used it. But He heard me. He heard my cry as I explained to Him my condition. He already knew the state I was in, but it was important for me to hear it myself. And as I admitted that I needed Him to rescue me from this pit that I was dying in, I saw it: the rope fell from the top of the pit right to where I was at to lift me out. Though my muscles were weak and my fingers swollen, I clung tightly to that rope, because I knew that this was my escape. I didn't know how deep my pit was until I was pulled back up through it, and as I was pulled closer and closer to the top, I found myself shielding my eyes from the light. I had grown so accustomed to the darkness at the bottom of my pit. Finally, I collapsed onto the cool, soft grass of level ground. There was clean air and wide open space and sunshine! Oh, the sunshine! I was finally free from my pit.
And this would have been enough, to just lie there at the edge of my pit, knowing that I was rescued undeservingly. But He did not leave me there raw and injured. Treating me with the gentlest care, He carried me back home, where He wiped away all of the dirt that was caked over my skin. He bandaged my blisters and massaged my sore muscles. He cut away the tattered fabric that had stuck itself to my body with sweat and dried blood and dressed me in new, better clothes. He combed through all the matted tangles of my hair and let me rest in His lap. And all the while, He never mentioned my pit. We both knew from where I came. There was no need to speak of it right now. Instead, He sang to me. He sang songs of healing and love and grace, and I finally found the satisfaction I had been seeking for so long.
I used to be a pit girl. Every once in awhile, I still hear the words in my head telling me to pick up a shovel again and dig a new pit. And sometimes, their words are so enticing that I almost believe them. But then I look at my hands and the scars and callouses that are left from my former pit days, and I remember that though that was my past, it is not my identity. I am a pit girl no longer.
He brought me up from a desolate pit, out of the muddy clay, and set my feet on a rock, making my steps secure. He put a new song in my mouth, a hymn of praise to our God. -Psalm 40:2-3
-------------------------------
Sometimes, I was ok with my pit-digging. It really wasn't a pit at the time; it was just a small hole. I enjoyed the release from trying so hard to be good. I liked getting a little dirty. But a lot of times, I was ashamed. I knew that I was being hypocritical. I was professing to live a clean life. I sang songs and prayed prayers and taught Scripture. No one knew I was digging myself a pit. But I knew. And God knew. And that was enough.
I knew that I was stuck, that I needed to get out, and that God was my only hope of doing so. But how could I face Him when I had completely rebelled and then lied about it to other people? I tried my hardest to make myself presentable enough to ask for His help. I tried to wipe off the dirt from my hands, but all I had available was my shirt. I tucked back the wisps of hair that had pulled themselves from my ponytail in all the strain and sweat. I even tried to pack down some of the dirt I had dug loose so I could stand a little taller in my pit, not so far down. I thought that, if I could show God how I was already working on getting myself out and making myself clean again, I would be a little more deserving of His help. But my denial of my current circumstances would not allow me to admit my need for complete rescue. So, I kept digging.
Soon, it began getting dark in my pit. As I dug deeper and deeper, it became harder for me to see the top. It was lonely and quiet in my pit, so I began to pay more attention to the words in my head than to the Words of the Father. These words told me I was hopeless. That I was not worthy of rescue. That this was my identity now; I had forfeited any other identity I once held. I was now a forever pit girl. And I believed them, because I had dug so far down, I could not hear anything else. So I kept digging. For three years, filled with fear and guilt and doubt, I kept digging.
And then, finally, I hit the bottom. I had not before realized the beauty of rock bottom, though, at the time, it only looked like despair. I put my shovel down for a rest. I had every intention of picking it back up again, but for the moment, I stopped to reflect at how far I had come. I strained my aching neck to arch upward, squinting to make out the top of my pit, now just a speck of light. And I realized in that moment, that though the words in my head told me that I could stop digging whenever I wanted and pull myself out, they were wrong. In fact, everything they had told me-about my circumstances, about myself, about God- had been wrong. I had been deceived. I looked down at my hands: the skin raw, bleeding, and blistered. I took notice of the stiff pain in my arms, my hunched back and my sore shoulders which I had grown so accustomed to. The words in my head told me this is where I belonged, that this is what I deserved. And they were right, because I'm the one who dug the pit in the first place. But I remembered life before the pit, and I longed to be back where I was before. I used to think that if I could prove to God that I was worthy of rescuing, then I could ask for help. But there, at the bottom of the pit, I knew that there was no amount of good I could do to could earn my rescue. So I did the only thing I could: I cried out to the Lord.
My voice was weak and shaky; it had been so long since I had used it. But He heard me. He heard my cry as I explained to Him my condition. He already knew the state I was in, but it was important for me to hear it myself. And as I admitted that I needed Him to rescue me from this pit that I was dying in, I saw it: the rope fell from the top of the pit right to where I was at to lift me out. Though my muscles were weak and my fingers swollen, I clung tightly to that rope, because I knew that this was my escape. I didn't know how deep my pit was until I was pulled back up through it, and as I was pulled closer and closer to the top, I found myself shielding my eyes from the light. I had grown so accustomed to the darkness at the bottom of my pit. Finally, I collapsed onto the cool, soft grass of level ground. There was clean air and wide open space and sunshine! Oh, the sunshine! I was finally free from my pit.
And this would have been enough, to just lie there at the edge of my pit, knowing that I was rescued undeservingly. But He did not leave me there raw and injured. Treating me with the gentlest care, He carried me back home, where He wiped away all of the dirt that was caked over my skin. He bandaged my blisters and massaged my sore muscles. He cut away the tattered fabric that had stuck itself to my body with sweat and dried blood and dressed me in new, better clothes. He combed through all the matted tangles of my hair and let me rest in His lap. And all the while, He never mentioned my pit. We both knew from where I came. There was no need to speak of it right now. Instead, He sang to me. He sang songs of healing and love and grace, and I finally found the satisfaction I had been seeking for so long.
I used to be a pit girl. Every once in awhile, I still hear the words in my head telling me to pick up a shovel again and dig a new pit. And sometimes, their words are so enticing that I almost believe them. But then I look at my hands and the scars and callouses that are left from my former pit days, and I remember that though that was my past, it is not my identity. I am a pit girl no longer.
 |
| http://cavenow.com/category/private/ |
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
1 comments:
How beautifully written. Thank you for sharing, I used to be pit girl too. Suzanne Wickham
Post a Comment