Where is the restoration?

The bittersweet advent

John Constable, Salisbury Cathedral from the Bishop’s Grounds, 1823.

Advent is pregnant with the bittersweet. There is pain in the journey we’ve walked and the waiting for what might be. But there is hope in a Savior who meets us here and begins placing brick-by-brick along the lot lines of our ancient ruins, rebuilding us from the foundation up.

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This past year has been perhaps the weirdest year of my life. A year ago this past October, I left my dream job. Internal company turmoil made it necessary to step out—I was tired and needed to find a healthier place to work. I took a job in Texas, and as I began my drive, I felt reminded by the Lord of the verse in Psalm 23: “He restores my soul.” Finally, I thought, I was ready for restoration. I pictured green grasses and long naps and limitless access to bookstores.

Less than one week later, however, I was in the emergency room. I was slurring my speech and couldn’t think of basic words. I was exhausted and sobbing all the time. It was like my body was in permanent fight or flight mode. This was not restoration; this was a breakdown, this was clinical burnout.

After the emergency room, my family and I decided to move me out of Texas and back home. I felt like a failure. I was terrified of God and other Christians. I didn’t feel safe, and my burnout made me sleep twelve to fourteen hours a night as well as take two hour naps in the afternoon. Where was the relief? Where was the restoration?

Eventually, I worked up the courage to move out of my parents’ house in Stillwater and move to Oklahoma City. I was terrified and exhausted and still so far away from who I thought I needed to be. It was around this time that I discovered a church called 8th Street. The head pastor asked me to get lunch with him the second Sunday I visited, and the spiritual formation pastor asked me to get coffee with him two weeks later. Exhausted and lonely and confused, I felt encouraged each time I attended 8th Street.

Finally, this past Fall, I had the opportunity to join the weekly book club at the church. We read The Good and Beautiful God by James Bryan Smith, and each week a group of us would show up and do our best at being vulnerable. We each brought our own hard life experiences and trusted that somehow, in some way, Jesus was with us and could guide our group towards healing, towards wholeness.

To be honest, I was scared of the people around the table and scared of God. It felt like God had promised me restoration but only gave me exhaustion and burnout. Could I trust God? Could I trust other Christians, humans with the capability to hurt me, to take the things I care about and manipulate them? Was another breakdown around the corner?

But each week, the book reminded me of God’s goodness and kindness. I felt God telling me I did not need to be perfect, that I did not need to pretend to be the perfect Christian. And each time I spoke, the group smiled at me, encouraging me to be a little bit more vulnerable. The voice that said I wasn’t worthy, that I was failing God, that I would never be perfect, began to be replaced by a voice of peace and love.

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“Out of the stump of David’s family will grow a shoot— yes, a new Branch bearing fruit from the old root.”

-Isaiah 11:1 (NLT)

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Two weeks ago I shared about my trip to interview for a job out of state. That trip was to Michigan, and I was interviewing to become the Director of Admissions at Western Theological Seminary (my dream seminary!). Before each interview, people prayed for me. They left a gift bag in the hotel lobby and made sure I was happy and healthy and well fed. AND—a small thing but by no means insignificant—the hotel they put me up in had a spiral staircase, and I love spiral staircases.

On the final day I was there, I attended chapel and listened as advent texts were shared between verses of “O Come, O Come Emmanuel.” The one above, Isaiah 11:1, was shared and hit me hard. It felt like the Lord reminded me that sometimes restoration is a small shoot growing from a stump. God does not need a mighty tree in order to restore me or use me; God is able to use what I have to give.

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“They will rebuild the ancient ruins,
    repairing cities destroyed long ago.
They will revive them,
    though they have been deserted for many generations.”

-Isaiah 61:4 (NLT)

I shared the story of my year with my church yesterday. I told them about the job switch and the burnout and my OCD and the beauty of that book club. I told them that they—this little church on the corner of 8th St. in Oklahoma City—were a part of my restoration journey without even knowing it.

I sat down in my seat, adrenaline still going from speaking in front of them, and listened to the sermon. The text for the day was another advent text from Isaiah. It spoke of freedom to the captives and the Lord coming to comfort the brokenhearted. And it ended with the verse above.

My pastor—the same one who invited me to lunch as a scared, burnt out new-congregant—explained that these verses were spoken over a people in exile. They experienced some of the worst things you can experience, and they were coming back to rebuild what had been destroyed. And God promised to be with them.

I got that job in Michigan. I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t nervous to return to the profession. I’ve spent a year wandering in burn out, and somedays I wonder if I am strong enough. But I am reminded that God has plans to rebuild ancient ruins in each of us. That God does not need a giant tree, that God can use a small, green shoot.

This is good news because my faith is small many days, but Jesus said that faith like a mustard seed could move mountains. Maybe he can work with what I have.

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“He restores my soul.
He leads me in paths of righteousness
    for his name's sake.”

-Psalm 23:3 (ESV)

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Advent is pregnant with the bittersweet. There is pain in the journey we’ve walked and the waiting for what might be. But there is hope in a Savior who meets us here and begins placing brick-by-brick along the lot lines of our ancient ruins, rebuilding us from the foundation up.

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I am praying for you in the Advent in-between.

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