Soul Hole

A number of years ago now, Country and Western singer, Randy Travis worked some of his typical country-bumpkin mojo with the following lyrics:

       I feel like an old pair of shoes
       All worn out from walking through the blues
       There's a hole in my soul
       And I'm really feeling used
       I feel like an old pair of shoes.                               

Although nearly forgotten by now, that song made a whole lot of sense to a lot of people. Countless are the numbers who have found themselves at the end of a long day, a rough week, a strained relationship, or, let's just say it, a harsh and bitter season of life, feeling like there's really nothing more left in them than a ragged hole where there once was hope and passion and maybe even a dream.

As if the barrage of daily conflicts aren't enough to stress us out, blow us up or get us down, we often find ourselves waging all-out war against enemies we can't even see let alone keep at bay. Oh, we put up a good resistance. We put on the garments of 'good effort' and flail about earnestly, maybe even push the enemy back now and again but the truth is, we often find ourselves huddled in some corner of a lack-luster existence wondering when it will finally be our turn to silence the tension.

Reality is like a brother, it eventually always comes home.

A recent change in occupation called for a change in my daily footwear. During the first couple of weeks I began to notice a change in the level of comfort my feet were experiencing during the workday. Upon closer inspection I discovered that the padded sole inside my work boot was worn so thin from extended use that there were literally holes worn clear through. As I stood there looking through the hole in my sole, it came to me;

...sometimes we feel like there is a hole in our SOUL.

The truth is, sometimes there is. I had certainly felt that way before, at various times in my life, and to be honest I had been feeling that way even more recently. If you knew the details of the last eleven months of my life, you would better understand, but trust me when I say, there was a hole in my soul. It felt like I had been in a wrestling match that lasted about 15 hours a day for twelve months straight. I was weary, strained and torn mentally, emotionally, physically and spiritually. Every fiber of my being was numb. It was sort of like looking in on your life from the outside. You can see the damage but you're somehow so worn that you're somehow disconnect from the pain. I know I reached a place where all there was left for me to do was to want to 'feel' again.

I would say that I wanted to die but the fact was, I already felt dead; dead to every one and everything. I found myself along the way wanting to cry out to God, "God, save me. Bring me back, God. Bring me back, God, I want to feel again." (Just like George Baily in "It's A Wonderful Life.") But there I was with a big fat soul hole. There wasn't even energy to cry out,  was simply drifting on the tide of my own demise.

The reality of my existence, and I use that term loosely, had surfaced. I was in a ver dark place. I was miles and miles away from my home and I neither could energize the long return on my own, nor did I even sense that a home would be waiting for me, if I did. My reality was ugly and hopeless.


Reality is not an enemy, even if it is like a relative you want to remain distant.

I have since understood that the condition I found myself in, at least in part, was present because I had been avoiding reality. Some never struggle with this, but for me escaping from reality has been a life-style coping mechanism in which you not only find relief from current stressors but you can then go on and write yourself a nice little fantasy about the kind of life you'd like to be living instead. Reality isn't the enemy. Reality isn't the problem, escaping reality is. You battle to push reality away and hold it there in order to create room for writing a new fantasy. Fantasizing a better scenario for ourselves only prolongs the inevitible for anyone who deep down wants to correct life's inbalances.

For anyone who has ever longed to be free from the burden of sin and its results, God's word has always given the same advice; confess. It is an invitation to wrestle with reality. It is as if God takes us by the hand and walks us up the the front door of the big scary neighborhood house, darkened and shadowed by clinging vines and unkept overgrowth and then challenges us, "Now ring the bell and when the door opens, walk through." Even with Christ standing right there, everything inside of us resist walking through the door of reality. Almost no one loves confession. Sometimes because it is spelled, e-x-p-o-s-u-r-e. Sometimes because even to breathe the word beneath our breath stirs up the muddy bottom of shame. It is as if our inner person somehow understands to do so absolutely carries a promise of rejection on some level. Maybe because, true to carnal form, members of our human brotherhood have proven these things to be true time and again.

And still, God refuses to withdraw his advice. And he promises (1 John 1:9) that if we will wrestle with reality, and confess our sin, that he IS (and always will be) just, and will forgive our sins and cleanse us from all unrightousness.

Reality is waiting.

Part of the benefit of finding my faulty footwear more recently is that I was ultimately able to understand my discomfort and also able to correct the problem. Just as a true, a good, honest, contest of tug-o-war with my reality has ushered in changes in my perspective. It has changed most certainly for the better. I no longer feel empty and dead and numb all over. That was then...this is now! I no longer spend endless hours replaying the drama of my recent past, not to mention, of any period from my history for that matter. I no longer see fantasy as a viable option. Why the change? What makes the difference? The answer is, because God is true to His Word.

These days I am leaning in, instead of pulling away. I am learning truth instead of looking for fantasy. I am banking simply and securely on Christ's powerful declaration of himself in John's gospel: "He is THE WAY! THE TRUTH! And, THE LIFE!"

When the enemy winds up and socks you right in the spiritual nose, seeking to drop you out of the race of your own life, he immediately follows through with a whisper- 'You're down for the count!' 'You're out!' 'You're finished!' 'There's no hope for you!'  It might look like he's right, it might even feel like he is right but here is the truth. Paul tells us in 2 Corinthians 4:8-9, "We are hard pressed on every side, but not crushed; perplexed, but not in despair; persecuted, but not abandoned; struck down, but not destroyed." This is a good dose of truth. Reality isn't so bad. I have discovered this is where Jesus lives!

Old Friends

Recently while mowing the front yard I paused long enough to empty the mower bag. As I lingered just a little longer in the late afternoon heat, to rest my weary bones, I glanced up in the enormous tree we have there, the last good tree on our property. My eyes caught a glance of a small length of green, rock-climbing rope dangling there in the summer breeze. As I followed that length of rope up from it's ragged end to the loop tied snuggly around a healthy limb, my mind traveled backward in time to a time approximately ten years ago, also a summer afternoon.

I was working then as a Patrol Officr with the Aberdeen Police Department then. On that particular afternoon I had been assigned the duty of security at our local airport for whatever flights might be coming or going during my shift. I was there, faitfully performing my duties when I heard a call go out over my portable police radio for the local Fire Department. The address they called out was my own and the call advised that there was a young male caught in a rope in the tree.

Being somewhat embarassed and always bold I keyed he mic long enough to request that dispatch simply leave him there. I knew immediately that my son Ross (and most likely his friends) had been using some of his rock-climbing equipment to rappel out f the tree and must havedone something wrong. Brown County Dispatcher B**** H*** informed me that they could not do that- I could hear the private chuckle in her voice.

The AFD arrived as directed and rescued my son Ross and the Fire Chief was even good enough to evaluate the way Ross had tied the rope and then to give him some suggestions on how to get it right next time. All ended well. That section of the rope they used that day has remained in that tree all thi time. If you look losely you will find other pieces of it tied here and there, as well as some pullies still dangling as proof that they had challenged and conquered the tree on more than one occasion.

My wife has asked me at times about getting that rope out of the tree but I have found it to be a doorway to some good memories. There have been others in the yard or around the house over the years. I can remember a number of years while the boys were young enough to still be playing baseball that we always had two worn spots in the grass in the front yard. I can recall how it frustrated me at the time because I wanted a plush geen yard. It took some time but the grass eventually closed in over those worn spots until now I can barely find the exact location. I catch myself looking for them, remembering the times we shared throwing the ball back and forth.

In the back yard there is a single galvanized pole standing towards the rear of our property. It is another remnant of years that are gone. The evidence of Corbin learning to bat or practicing his swing as the tethered baseball would swing around and around. The pole has countless dings and dents in it where the bat was laid against it in frustration on missed swings. But again, the pole- otherwise useless to us just now- serves as a reminder of days gone by. Proof that they were here.

And what of the girls? They did not do much rappelling or baseball, but in the hallway outside bedroom doors there are still small nailholes in he wood where someone decided to hang hippie beads over the doorway as a mock curtain. Spots of spray paint on the side of a freezer in the basement, pencil markings at graduating heights showing the growth of growing teens along a certain door jam next to the laundryroom, even a bow in the neighbor's fence from someone prematurely driving the family van. When I see these things, they don't frustrate me anymore. They are like old friends, reminding me of days gone by. Reminding me that I haven't been alone; that my life has been blessed and good and full.