I read a selection from a book of parables by Søren Kierkegaard as I went to bed last night. As I meandered through the pages, reading the selections which seemed intriguing to me, I discovered one about a man riding on a wooden horse who cannot seem to get comfortable because the back of the horse is jutting up like the tip of a triangle. Another individual walks by and begins to look at him and wonder what it is he is doing. The man on the horse barks back, “What are you looking at?” And the passerby recommends that he go in the alleyway and do whatever it is he is trying to do.

I thought this was such a strange analogy. But the more I thought about it (coupled with a helpful commentary), I felt deeply that I understood exactly what Kierkegaard was speaking of. The wooden horse is that seemingly useless and crippling dose of suffering that lingers around for undisclosed amount of time. To the outside world, it looks as if you are riding uncomfortably on the back of a wooden horse with a sharp spine. As the rider, you feel as if no one understands what it is you are going through. The solution to both the rider and the pedestrian is the same: go away and hide.

Don’t tell anyone. Don’t show anyone. If you can’t explain it, why try? The 2 years of my life were mingled with this sort of suffering. It was not in the wake of a tragedy. It was not for any reason that I could conjure up. I simply didn’t feel right and I didn’t know why. Though the ones I spoke to about it were filled with a grace that sought deeply to understand what it was I was talking about, I still couldn’t find anyone around that could nod their head along like they knew exactly what it was I was going through.

My first tendency is not usually to escape. I normally try to drown my thoughts in conversation with others and hope I don’t find myself marooned to a second alone. But escape felt like all I could do. It felt like I was in a foreign country where everyone speaks another language. Though the locals may try their best to understand your needs, they point you in the direction of the nearest bathroom and you quickly realize they haven’t understood you in the slightest.

In this case, I needed a hospital. A hospital for a broken mind, a needy soul, and a tendency to give up hope at every bad feeling. This is where I’ve been. I will say though, the last week and a half has felt like a rock has just shifted to let a little beam of light into a dark cave. I have felt good. And that was a rarity.

But now I battle the fear that one day Babel will strike again and no one will have a clue of what I’m saying. The hope that pulls me through is the one that got me to today. I believe in a God who cares about the day-to-day and has this strange ability to make all things work together for good for those who love Him. I’ve come to realize that I don’t know what is best for me. I eat candy when I think I’m gaining weight. I say I like things that I don’t really like to look cool. I treat others like I don’t want to be treated. Maybe my own Babel experience is the Maker’s way of getting me to realize that he knows better what I need and that I am cared for even when I’m misunderstood.