Neediness

Something happened to me on Sunday. I woke up with a desire for intimacy with God that was overwhelming to me. I felt my need for Him weighing down on me with paralyzing force. At first, I panicked. "Fight or flight" instinct kicked in and the anxiety pushed me to rush to church 30 minutes before the first service even started. My heart was breaking, or I was realizing it was broke, as if from the rejection of a fond lover, and I wanted to beg for mercy. "Take me back. Please do not make me feel this way." My need for God, for security, identity and intimacy was laid out in raw form. I could not ignore it.

The sovereignty of God is never more apparent to me as in these moments. It is clear to me: I have a God and He dominates me. I laugh at the absurdity of "free will" in such moments, as if to say, "Choice? What choice? I was overwhelmed." My heart just broke and I was left instantly intoxicated by my need for all things Godly.

I cannot think of anything else but to see Him, hug Him, laugh and cry with Him, eat with Him. I want to blur the border in the "otherness" of matter and exist with Him in time and space. I want Him to exist in me, deep inside me, as me, and I in Him. I want Him so close that my hand on His shoulder is His hand on mine. If the reader isn't too offended, or too Freudian, I would say that my desire for closeness with Him surpassed even the sexual magnetism between lovers. I wanted Him in me, and I in Him, as far as intimacy would allow. Unity, oneness, whatever you want to call it, called to me.

But I did not have it, I simply became aware of my need for it. The desperation of my awareness grew exponentially on Sunday morning and in no time at all it had crushed my heart and left me, teary eyed and sniffling, barely able to lift my head, empty and broken, in the back row of worship at church. I felt like a limp noodle, like a mannequin made of cheap, thin glass.

I stayed for both services solely due to the fact that I knew the pastor would offer prayer services to those who needed it at the end of each. "Hi, my name is Benjamin. I really need God. Can you pray for me?" or something along those lines, was requested of one. I talked with those especially safe friends, who do not offer estranged compassion, advice, or similar stories. Those friends, whose thoughtful smiles and wise eyes melt away the fear of being misunderstood, listened to me for an hour after the last service ended. Right after Independence Day, I learned (felt? experienced? swallowed?) how dependent I was.

That evening I stopped panicking. I was still heart-broken, but I could finally relax. There is a special sort of peace that develops when you are grieving. It is a hard-fought, courageously reasoned, and open perspective of the way things are and the way you wish them to be which calms your nerves and gives you patience. True patience is learned by created comfort, via reasoning, in the midst of adversity.

There is no real end to this story. I still feel the urge to clutch my chest, bend over slightly, and groan. My heart feels like it gained ten dark pounds. I cannot swallow correctly. But at least now I can show a genuinely patient smile. I really need Him for everything. It is a painfully obvious, and painfully not so obvious, truth.