Day 19: Tanya Marlow on the Journey-A Guest Post

Today, I’ve asked Tanya Marlow to join us and talk a bit about her journey. Tanya writes at Thorns and Gold, and I’ve gotten to know a bit about her from both her blog and her twitter feed (which is always chock full of great links and good conversation). Both have given me a close up perspective on Tanya’s struggle living with a chronic illness. She shows true faith and grace while facing a very difficult path. I can learn so much from her and I think you can too. It’s an honor to have Tanya here today.

Progress on the Journey

When was the last time you entered a different country?

There are two ways of entering a country.

The first way is the clear entry. I have been once to the USA. The entry was a noisy airport; announcements, surprisingly personal questions from unsmiling uniformed figures, fingerprinting, forms, heavy luggage. I had arrived.

Or when I stepped out of a plane as a child onto Africa – even before your feet touch the ground, you know you are somewhere different. As soon as the door opens, the air hits you like a thousand warm currant buns, right in the face.

But there is another way of entering a country.

We used to go on camping holidays as a kid in Europe. We lived by the coast in England, and we would stuff the car to the gunnels with tent poles, toys, books, clothes and emergency snacks, cross the channel on the ferry and drive. And then drive some more.

We played memory games, sang songs in harmony in the back of the car, needed the toilet, whined about our siblings’ elbows in our face, read until we were carsick, stuck our heads out of the window into the wind. Then we got out of the car for a break, and then did it all again. I’m not completely sure how my parents stayed sane for the 10-20 hours of the car journey. (Although, as I recall some details of the travelling, I’m not entirely sure that they always were quite sane for the entirely journey…)

Once, we drove for hours to get to Italy. Not every boundary is policed, as we discovered on those convoluted roads of Europe. Sometimes the boundaries between the two countries are right in the middle of a large forested area, and you just aren’t sure which country you’re in.

We stayed overnight in Switzerland (where I remember – with some indignation – that we had a decidedly meagre evening meal because all the budget had been used up on the overnight accommodation. Switzerland was very expensive. As a ten-year-old, I was less than impressed by the view. Never mind the quiet mountains and smug lake – I had been looking forward to eating out at a restaurant.)

Anyway. We set out in the morning to Italy.

There were few signs where we were travelling, and the area was sparsely populated. The changes were hard to track: there were still the tall trees, the winding roads, the mountains. Maybe there was a slight brightening of the light as we travelled South. The houses looked subtly different, though I couldn’t tell you how. Gradually the proportion of car registration plates that passed us switched from being mainly Swiss to mainly Italian.

In that long journey from Switzerland to Italy, there was no notification, no bright shining lights or announcements or officials to tell us that we had changed from one country to another. We travelled for a few hours, then stopped at the nearest fuel station. The mountains looked browner, somehow, and as we stepped out, a tanned, dark-haired man bid us ‘Buon Giorno’ and my parents fumbled through the Swiss Franks to dig out the Lira.

We had arrived in Italy. But I couldn’t tell you when that had happened.

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There are two areas of my life where I feel acutely this tension of not knowing exactly where I am.

I have severe M.E., an autoimmune illness which affects my mobility and concentration. It has rendered me housebound for the last two years, and I am unable to leave the house more frequently than once a week, for just a couple of hours, in a wheelchair. When I rest, I tend to get better: gradually, imperceptibly. It takes weeks and weeks of feeling frustrated and that I am not doing as well as I would like – and then, one day, I realise, ‘three months ago I couldn’t do this – now I can. Is that improvement?’ The progress of physical healing comes at a painfully slow pace.

The other area of my life is where I feel this tension is in the process of becoming holy. As Christians, we are on a journey where we are being made into the likeness of Christ. We have turned from the old country. But we won’t really get the stamp on our passports until we enter heaven’s gates. We just know we are progressing in that direction.

Sometimes it can feel like we are definitely in Italy. The light looks brighter, we are joyful, we’re more patient, we notice a love for God’s word. Other times, we frown – we are more selfish than ever, we lack self-control – it is as if we never left Switzerland at all.

This is what holiness feels like: not a tick in the box, a stamp in the passport, approval by officials. It is a long, winding, confusing journey; those gradual, imperceptible changes.

We repeatedly ask, ‘Are we nearly there yet?’

We’re not. But we’re on our way.

Over to you:
– Where do you feel this tension in your life?

– When was the last time you entered a different country?
Tanya Marlow was formerly in Christian ministry for a decade and was Associate Director and lecturer for a university-level Bible training course. Now she reads Bible stories to her toddler as she learns what it means to be a mum who is housebound with an autoimmune illness. She blogs at Thorns and Gold, on the Bible, Suffering, and the messy edges of life. Follow Tanya on Twitter or like her Facebook page.