The Chase

A woman that runs from the invisible--yet always present--demons of negative self-worth in the wood of her mind. Love meets her in her darkness, and renews the things she thought were broken forever.

            She can no longer remember how long she has been running for. Maybe it has always been this way. Regardless of when things began to fall apart, she recognizes that she has accumulated quite a track record of pain and failure she dare not face. So, the natural instinct of the human species is to run. Run as fast as you can and pray to God the demons never catch up. Unless, that is, God Himself is a so-called demon. When He’s the one to run from, I doubt there is a lot of prayer taking place.

            Riiip. Her white dress tore as it snagged on a branch and left a tassel fluttering about her bare ankles as she darted in between trees and hopped over logs. A branch caught her hair, undoing her braid and ripping a dirty bow out of her hair. As her bare foot sunk into mud with the tassel underneath, the tassel ripped off and was left lying in her footprint.

            God and the rest of her demons were not far behind.

She had no idea where she was running to, or what she was running from for that matter. Even “God” was nothing more than some ambiguous form of an abusive father of whom she can never please.

            On the outside, her beautiful face appears solid, determined, stable. But inside depicts pure chaos; Where am I running to? What did I do wrong? Why am I being punished? What inherent flaw in my character needs to be fixed? I will fix anything. I just want to be accepted. I just want to love myself.

            As she continued running, the scariest thought of them all entered into her mind; what if God wasn’t chasing her? What if He will never find her? What if she will never be saved? Her fear is that she will be perpetually stuck inside her mind, constantly analyzing and isolating and unable to function in a reality other than her own Fort Knox she has spent so much time manufacturing. She has done this to herself, she had built the walls enclosing this forest of illusion she is running in. Even though the boundaries form a triangle, she manages to run in continuous circles.

            A small part of her has realized this plight, it’s kind of hard to ignore when she keeps hopping over the same log a couple of times each month. But a bigger part refuses to believe her efforts are in vain, somehow all this running creates some sort of twisted personal significance. If she were to stop, she would loose her identity, and those demons would rip her limb from limb. But that wasn’t the worst of it. The scariest part of stopping is that she would have to bear the disappointment of God, the person she has given up everything to please. Maybe if she was perfect, she could be acceptable enough to be loved.

            So she runs. She runs to buy time to plot her plan for perfection, to fix the things He must find despicable. Every failure she endures makes her run faster, desperately distancing herself from the proof of her lack of perfection.

            But what if her speed and distance and circles have made God come to the conclusion that she isn’t worth the chase? What if her efforts have proven to be too little too late? Surely, she can’t blame God for giving up�"she would give up too if she were Him. However, somewhere, deep inside she clings to the idea that God hasn’t given up, that even amidst his punishing and disappointed stare there is at least a morsel of love left for her.

            So she challenges Him.

            “Catch me,” she says through an aloof smile, pretending she doesn’t need Him to. Pretending that she doesn’t care about the outcome, that she is content running for the rest of her life, that somehow she will fix herself enough to stop and meet His gaze in confidence. But what if she never quite reaches perfection? She is incapable of stopping, incapable of finding the courage to face God, the epitome of her proof of failure. She cannot break down the walls she has built; she cannot escape her walls of seclusion and twisted reality. She pretends she’s not dependant on God to catch her, but she cannot deny that she is terrified He never will.

 

            She’s seeing ghosts. They haunt her behind every tree. She is trying to ignore them, but it is hard not to read their cardboard signs, “I am patient.” They must be some terrifying sign from the domineering and omnipresent G-O-D.

            At first there was only a couple, then a few more, and now they are always in front of her, indirectly directing her. She quickly changes her course as she sees them, desperately fleeing their presence.

            Soon enough she finds herself hopping over logs she has never seen before, and the familiar sight of her faded footprints is no longer there to comfort her. Where is God? He never shows up when she needs Him most. She laughs, “He should be the one repenting. Not me. I’ve been the faithful one.”

            She quickly stops that train of thought. That’s not how she is supposed to think. God is good all the time. God is good all the time. Why can’t she just believe it! Her mind begins to go frantic as it usually does when she is trying to brainwash herself into thinking what she considers essential to believe in order to be perfect. In essence, the frantic state of mind is her fixing herself.

            More and more ghosts fill her vision. This new place is dark, scary, and very unfamiliar. She is forced to sprint through thorn bushes and thick branches that scrape her delicate skin in avoidance of these terrifying ghosts. The forest continues to get thicker and darker as her mind gets more and more frantic.

            God is good all the time. God is good all the time.

            I am bad all the time. I am bad all the time.

            The only way I can be good is if He makes me good. He is not making me good. It must be because of something I am doing wrong, because He is good and I am bad. God is good all the time. What am I doing wrong? What am I being punished for? The ghosts lead her over more thorns. But she dare not stop this sprint for some sort of freedom. Her mind races as she examines the depths of her soul, desperately searching for something she can fix. Her feet begin to bleed.

            What the hell does ‘I am patient’ even mean? I am patient to watch your destruction because it is better to see you suffer? I am patient until you get it right, but in the meantime I’ll be enjoying myself with other things that spark my interest? Or in the meantime I will go on vacation, but as soon as you get it together come talk to me? These signs, along with her bloody feet become evidence of the distant and punishing God as well as her lack of perfection. I can’t even run without getting hurt.

            And I am bad all the time.

            Branches hit her face and scratch her arms. The thorns continue to dig deeper into her feet, beginning to leave a trail of blood behind her. Not that she is looking back.

            The forest gets so thick she is forced to close her eyes in order to reduce the risk of getting them ripped out of their sockets. Branches continue to smack her body, leaving welts, bruises, and deep gnashes. I am bad all the time. I am bad all the time. I am bad all the time. The pressure of the trees pushing back on her forces her to trudge through the darkness until it suddenly is disappears.

            The sudden absence of the opposing force results in her face-planting into the ground. Her first instinct was to lie there, never get back up, never think about anything again. But then her mind slowly came around and as she remembered God and her demons a surge ran through her to continue running. She attempted to get back up but her body simply wouldn’t let her. The bruises, scratches and deep wounds proved to be too much for her will power.

            This was it. It was over. The demons will catch her. And she will have to face God in all his disappointment. Her eyes closed tighter as she braced herself, expecting everything she was running from to trample on her all at once.

            But it never came.

 

            Maybe God wasn’t chasing her after all. Maybe He did give up. And where were the rest of her demons? She realized that everything she had lost in the chase, was lost for good. Her identity, she began to understand, was based on her demons. And now that there are no demons, who is she? Nothing to run from is worse than something. And now she has nothing left.

 

            She rolled over in unbearable emptiness and opened her eyes, half expecting to be floating in some vast empty space where she can finally accept that the world she knew was never really real. But she did not find herself isolated in eternal emptiness. She found herself lying next to a grown man looking at her with childish wonder, sitting in crisscross-apple-sauce.

            She smiled on the inside at her lack of fear. It must be something about his eyes. If she had any emotion left in her, she would probably conjure up enough self-discipline to proceed with caution, but since there was no strength to conjure anything up anymore, she let the wave of relief she had been blockading wash over her at the thought of someone else entering into this scary darkness. Even if he was here to hurt her, she had already come to the conclusion that she has nothing left to loose anyway, so why not?

            “Why are you smiling?” she asked. For some reason her eyes could not meet his for long periods of time.

            He paused for a moment, “Because you’re beautiful.”

            If her body was in a better condition, she might have blushed. And if her mind was in a better condition, she might have taken the empty compliment with a polite thank you like she usually does. Instead she replied flatly, “No I’m not.”

            She expected him to argue, but instead he managed to smile even more.

Her defense mechanisms were slowly regaining power and she found the strength to hobble to her feet.

She looked past his childish face and saw a torn up little shack. For some reason, the very sight of it overwhelmed her. The sharp and familiar sting of pain, regret, and guilt flooded her mind. Her body felt increasingly heavy. The very presence of this place was everything she had been trying to avoid feeling. This is the place she has been running from. This is the source of her anxiety.

            “Not only that,” said the now standing man, “but it’s the purest, most genuine part of you.”

            She laughed, not willing to acknowledge the fact that he just read her mind. “Then how can you say I’m beautiful? That is an old, broken down, anxiety-ridden shack.”

            He smiled again, “Exactly.”

            Her brow burrowed in frustration. She would have communicated her confusion if she thought it would help, but she figured the man had already read her mind once, he could probably do it again�"like some sort of omnipresent god. Oh, duh, she thought, you are God.

            Jesus smiled.

            “Wait…you�"you’re God.” Her eyes scanned him in shock. She imagined this meeting while she was running, and it went nothing like this. “Where’s the blinding light and omniscient voice?” she asked, a little sarcastically. She might as well be genuine. After all, he didn’t seem like a guy who would get offended too easily.

            He continued smiling, “I didn’t think that was necessary. You don’t have to make a principle out of an experience my dear. Let us continue to be creative.”

            She wasn’t quite sure what he meant by that, so she decided to go with the easy question, “Whose ‘us’?”

            “Me, Daddy, and the Holy Ghost.”

            “Oh…right,” she said, remembering the confusing theology of the trinity. “The ghost thing all makes sense now. You’re telling me that was the Holy Spirit?”

            “Yeah,” he said with overwhelming love in his eyes. Like the very mention of the Ghost filled him with incredible joy.

            She paused a minute, the look in his eye caught her off guard. “So…you guys led me…to a shack? That supposedly represents me. Needless to say the worst part of me�"“

            “Oh I disagree,” Jesus cut her off, “This place is the most magnificent and beautiful place. Granted, it is a little scary at the moment. But it is still a wonderful, wonderful mess.” He had that look in his eye again.

            The gaze was getting a little too personal for her, so she decided to change the subject. “So you finally caught me after all, huh?”

            He stepped closer. “My darling, we have been directing your path since before you were born. We always knew you would meet us here. Trust me, the past few days we could hardly stand it, just knowing you were getting closer to visiting the shack.”

            His eyes were beginning to tear up and she decided that wasn’t the best diversion from her fear of intimacy. Her eyes studied the ground, unsure of what she was supposed to do next. After a few moments of silence, she managed to casually bring her gaze to his.

            “I guess this would be an appropriate time to say awkward turtle, yeah?”

            He laughed as the tears began to roll down his face, “You always know how to make me laugh, my love.”

            Her eyes began welling with salt water and her throat now became home to a rather prominent lump. She wasn’t exactly sure about what she was feeling, but she didn’t see any point in fighting it.

            “Oh,” he said sheepishly, “I have something for you.” He stepped closer and held out the tassel that had been ripped off of her dress and the bow torn from her hair. They were now pure white.

            The tears began to flow freely in her eyes now. “I thought the things I lost were lost forever.”

            He stepped closer and whispered, “Nothing is lost forever, love. They are just being renewed.”

            She tried her best to smile as his words threatened her knees to collapse. Her stare turned toward the shack and a wave of anxiety also threatened the reality of her remaining upright. It was like she was caught in a whirlwind of unconditional love and overwhelming anxiety.

            As she gathered enough strength to study the individual features of her soul, her mind was flooded with all her failures. All her expectations. Everything she had done wrong. Everything she hadn’t done right. Her anger. Her lies. Her insecurities. I am not smart enough. I am not skinny enough. I am not cool enough. I will just have to settle for second best. I cannot finish. I am a weak person. If only I had this quality and that quality. Schedules and calendars and other micromanaging tools overwhelmed her. Everything she had been trying to suppress was staring her in the face. I am not worthy of being loved. I am not important. I am not significant. I am not worth the chase.

            He caught her right as she lost her footing. His embrace brought her back into the fleeting presence of peace.

            “That place is scary. I don’t want to go in there.”

            Through his tears he smiled and held her tighter, “Okay love, we don’t have to yet.”

            She completely let go and sobbed in his arms. Desperately clinging to the only truly safe place she had ever experienced. This was nothing like the God she imagined. But she supposed she hadn’t met “Daddy” yet.

            “He’s waiting inside,” said Jesus, “You’ve got some daddy stuff we’re going to work out together. But don’t worry, I know my Father, and I know how much he delights in you. And I promise that you guys will get along really great. I can’t wait until you can get to know him�"and either can he.”

            She continued sobbing as one eye peaked out from his shoulder and examined the pile of nails and boards awkwardly assembled to create her soul.

            “It’s okay,” he whispered through his own tears, “It’s all okay.”

 

            And amidst everything that had happened here…the real miracle was this: she believed him.

Author's Note

This is a story that has helped me with my own personal struggle with the demons chasing me and establishing my identity as a 'runner'.