just as you are

“Come to me…” (Matthew 11:28)

Isn’t it humiliating to be told that we must come to Jesus! Think of the things about which we will not come to Jesus Christ. If you want to know how real you are, test yourself by these words— “Come to Me…” In every dimension in which you are not real, you will argue or evade the issue altogether rather than come; you will go through sorrow rather than come; and you will do anything rather than come the last lap of the race of seemingly unspeakable foolishness and say, “Just as I am, I come.” As long as you have even the least bit of spiritual disrespect, it will always reveal itself in the fact that you are expecting God to tell you to do something very big, and yet all He is telling you to do is to “Come…” (Oswald Chambers, My Utmost for His Highest)

The week before we left Noah’s Ark, the Nnabagereka (queen) of Buganda hosted her annual Christmas party on our compound. Hundreds of other children came, people performed dance and drama presentations, they had a nice lunch, and every child was given a gift from the queen. The week before the Christmas party, some of the queen’s people came to visit the compound to see where different parts of the event would take place and if it would work. Of course in the days leading up to the event, the children were excited: “The queen is coming!” The day of the visit, they put on their best clothes. The girls had freshly braided hair, which usually doesn’t happen until January before school starts. Garbage was picked up, the children’s home was cleaned, and the day’s schedule was printed. Before the queen could come, we had to be ready. 

I am 37 weeks pregnant—the beginning of full term, according to most sources—and in the last week my hormone levels have shot through the roof. I am always a fairly emotional person, but these days, especially in the morning, anything can make me cry: Christian leaves his jeans on the bed. The blender won’t blend my frozen raspberries. The person on television has an annoying voice. I am ready for church 15 minutes later than planned. My toes are cold. Seriously, you name it—it has probably put me in tears in the last week. 

Last night my sister texted me: How are you, sister? 

My response was: So. Many. Hormones. 

Yesterday we went to Gouda with Christian’s family for a tour of a siroopwafelfabriek (a factory where they make a certain Dutch dessert) and to have a day out. I was feeling guilty in the morning for doing fun things instead of working or being productive, but managed to shake it off and enjoy our time out. On our way home, as Christian and I were walking back from the train station, I started felting down again. It began as a combination of this increasingly heavy baby in my pelvis, the nearly constant discomfort of needing to pee, and my husband walking several steps in front of me because his long legs are still not used to my new, slow pace. My emotional instability intensified when we stopped at a supermarket on the way. After our normal shopping, I mentioned as casually as I could that I wanted ice cream, but that we have probably been eating too much of it lately. My hope was that Christian would argue with me and say that since I was eight months pregnant, I should get ice cream anytime I want. To my dismay (and here I really mean dismay, what with ratcheted up emotions and all), he offhandedly agreed and proceeded straight to the checkout with our other, healthier, items.

By the time we reached home, I was fighting back tears. I can always tell that something is really wrong when I stop making eye contact with people, and I was refusing to lift my gaze above Christian’s navel. I unpacked our shopping and lay down on our bed for awhile, but it felt like a waste of time. Christian joined me for a few minutes, and when he left I grabbed my computer to work on my online Dutch lessons. Maybe doing something productive would get me out of this funk. 

It didn’t.

I could hardly see the screen when my eyes filled with tears. With a mind that was not fully present, I had trouble following and reviewing the new information on how to spell adjectives. My laptop is functioning less and less as a laptop, as the size of my lap is decreasing by the day under my protruding belly, and when I momentarily let go of the corner and my computer slid off my legs onto the floor, I wasted no time in also flopping sideways onto the floor, my whole body convulsing from sobs that had no legitimate foundation other than hormones. 

Be logical, I kept telling myself. If you stop crying and sit up, you can finish your Dutch lesson. It is still early in the evening and you can still do something together with Christian. You have not wasted the whole night, and there is no reason why you need to. So stop crying and sit up.

The problem is, my emotions are not founded in logic. I did not sit up. I did not stop crying. And the longer I lay there telling myself to be logical and the longer I failed to do it, the worse I felt. I shook. I sobbed. I had trouble breathing. For a fleeting moment I wondered if the baby was getting enough oxygen, but that worry did not calm me down. 

After half an hour of lying on my side on the cold, laminate bedroom floor, my whole upper body racking with sobs, I was a mess—emotionally and physically. The entire area on the floor where my head rested was slippery from tears. There was snot on my sock from where I had blown my nose on it (don’t ask how I managed to reach my nose to my foot because I have no idea). By the dim light streaming through the cracked door, I could also see a thin, very attractive string of snot-mixed-with-saliva stretching four inches from my face to the floor. What a depressing connection to the place I had let myself fall. Part of me wanted Christian to come in and comfort me, but my pride kept me from calling him. What wife wants her husband to see her in such a state? I was embarrassed of how I looked and ashamed of not being able to “logic” my way out of this fit. 

And there, on the bedroom floor, covered in my own tears and grossness, I started whispering, “Jesus, I need you.” Over and over again the same thing: “Jesus, I need you.”

Just as I was, I came. 

It is a wonder that after God makes each of us so intricately and perfectly, He still accepts us back—no, welcomes us back, wants us back—even after we have made a mess of ourselves and broken ourselves. He did not tell me to first wash the snot off my face. He did not tell me to first get a handle on my emotions and then come before him, composed and clean. He did not tell me to do something useful or productive. He did not even tell me to first sit up. Long ago, and every day since then, He simply tells me to come. 

“Just as you are, come.” 

Just. As. You. Are.

There are days when I feel more worthy to sit at His feet than I did in that moment. The funny thing is, those are the days when I am most in the wrong. Jesus is not the Nnabagereka who needs to have everything ready before she can enter our compound. Jesus is the one who makes me ready. He is the one who makes me clean. He is the one who lifts me up and composes me and helps me to see things clearly. 

Oswald Chambers goes on to say, “Just think of the invincible, unconquerable, and untiring patience of Jesus, who lovingly says, ‘Come to Me…’ “

Just as I am, I will come.