what are you doing here
“Have you changed your sheets recently?” I ask over lunch, just as Riley stabs at her salad with her fork, catching up a bit of lettuce, a brilliant coin of carrot.
It’s true of us all: we can think no one knows where we’ve been, that no one knows we’ve walked right off course for days. It’s like an echo of Eden, how we all still believe we’re hiding. Then, from somewhere off to the right, some Loving One still tracking—always tracking with us, rephrases an age-old question.
Riley pauses, fork poised over her plate.
It’s like when the prophet Elijah dragged his despondent body up the mountain to meet with God; the God who had fed a starving Elijah from the sharp beaks of blue-black ravens and the widow’s endless oil and flour; the God who had flat out defeated hundreds of idol-worshipping prophets, sending fire, pumping Elijah with reckless courage; the God who had ended a drought in answer to Elijah’s prayers, when that God asked Elijah twice, “What are you doing here?”
As if He didn’t know.
This ancient question is the searching question of a watchful parent, the kind willing to sacrifice dignity and life in favor of finding you.
The words change but not the reason for them.
To Adam and Eve, God asked, “Where are you,” to Hagar, “Where are you going,” to Elisha’s servant, “Where have you been?”
I already know Riley hasn’t been changing her sheets, but even I, a broken-up, messy mother, am reaching for something else.
“Well, it’s just that I’ve been really busy,” she says, skipping straight to an excuse, to a reason for the ‘no’ she can’t quite bring herself to say. She only glances my way as she forks the bite into her mouth and begins to chew.
It’s the human way to misinterpret the inquiry, to think this whole thing is about doing the right thing more than being in the right place. Every time, throughout time, we jump to our practical explanations, our self-justification, or we lie. Elijah did; Adam and Eve did; Hagar did; the servant did; I do.
“I know,” I say now to my daughter, with compassion.
Her schedule has changed quite a lot with the shift to full time school, and also, I know she puts off doing this necessary chore because her OCD, like a loud-mouthed bully, has added dozens of unnecessary and illogical steps to the process. What should take her 15 minutes or less takes well over an hour, and the more disordered Riley’s thinking gets, the more oppressed she feels, the harder seemingly simple tasks become. OCD twists Riley’s naturally thorough diligence into a debilitating complication.
“I know,” I say slowly, letting her see in my eyes that I really do. I reach for her, so she can feel on her skin, in her bones, what’s moving me, and then, I continue, “but we have to figure this out, because it’s not healthy for you to sleep for weeks on dirty sheets.”
Word is, love lifts us out of the mud and mire. As a parent, I get that.
Riley blinks against unbidden tears, a sudden flood.
“It’s just so hard,” she gasps, giving in now, the words almost exhaled on a sigh as she slides a palm across her eyes.
I take a breath, giving it the significance of time.
“I’m sorry it’s so hard,” I say quietly.
Seems like getting back feels even harder than getting lost.
Every time, that heart searching question, me searching out Riley’s heart, God searching out mine, comes with an invitation, a step of faith, that feels like walking through the water and the fire.
God told Elijah to go back the way he came; told Hagar to return to her cruel mistress; told Adam and Eve they’d have to leave the garden.
I tell Riley, “You’ll have to go up there to your room and choose to do this anyway, even if it takes you all afternoon.”
Because unless God chooses otherwise—and he could—Riley’s OCD will never go away.
She nods carefully, still trying to erase her tears with her fingers, and I draw her close, holding my grown-up girl against my heart for a few moments before I go on. The hurt of it all soaks into my shirt.
And then I whisper, just gently, over her shoulder, “I’m so sorry it’s hard. But this is part of getting where you need to go.”
