The Outage (Pt.4)

On Saturday afternoon, I finished writing Calling Declaration in one go.

Most of the thoughts in the article were things I had pondered long ago—now it felt like I already knew the destination and all the scenic spots, and only needed to plan the best route. Compared to the full-sensory, imaginative, emotional, and intellectual mobilization that narrative nonfiction requires, writing something expository felt like taking a rest.

I also finished updating my website and mapped out the things I would do next, aligning them with my calling.

Each morning during those few days, I would wake up with a tangible sense of intimacy with God. I was deeply content, to the point that I no longer even wanted to ask Him for a husband. I felt immersed in a sacred, authentic, peaceful spiritual realm. I seemed to have embraced my identity and had no anxiety about the future—because I knew He would surely carry me.

But that confidence vanished after I spent an hour scrolling short videos on Sunday morning.

When I finally put down my phone, I realized I couldn’t return to that world of calling—I had become a madwoman with nothing. The feeling, perhaps, was like Adam’s eyes being opened after eating the forbidden fruit—bright yet catastrophic.

In that moment, I fell into deep panic. I even suddenly understood why King Saul felt the need to persecute David.

I wept and sought God, confessed to Him, pleaded with Him not to cast me away.

Gradually, I entered into a state of humble stillness. Even though I knew He hadn’t abandoned me, I could no longer feel that sense of being “upheld.”

Or rather, knowing I would be upheld no longer gave me confidence.

After getting ready, I headed to church. The moment I stepped out of the building, the world felt somewhat unfamiliar. The spring sunlight was blinding. There were many flower vendors along the way, and the streets were brimming with vitality, as if the great outage had never happened. I was dressed in gray and black, striding forward like a ninja.

The front of the church was as lively as usual. I greeted familiar faces with hugs and smiles, just like always, then walked into the live-house-style venue and found an open seat.

I stood near the front, at the very center of the congregation, watching the passionate worship leaders and band on stage, surrounded by people immersed in song and praise to God—and I suddenly didn’t know what to do—

“Lord, where am I?” I thought.

“They’re expressing their love and gratitude for You, yet I just wrote in my Calling Declaration that the modern spiritual tradition does not truly encourage believers to ‘expose the soul intimately before God,’ nor teach the ‘soul’s ability to respond honestly to truth.’ Am I now to say they are neither intimate with You nor honest?”

In the midst of their triumph, I was enduring brokenness. When the worship finally ended, I sat down in defeat. The lead pastor came on stage to give his usual opening, and then announced the sermon title—

“The Power of a Seed!”

My tears burst forth—God’s hand caught my shattered pieces.

Oh Lord, my theology—full of ignorance and powerlessness—is still met by Your mercy.

“Seeds in a jar, safe, yet nothing happens. We are called not for preservation but for multiplication!”
“Obedience always feels like death, before it feels like fruits!”
“There is fruit in following Jesus!”
…

I wept through nearly the entire sermon. At the end, the pastor invited everyone to hold the seed in their hand and meditate on it—only then did I realize I hadn’t picked up a seed at the entrance.

But I knew: I already was one.

I didn’t wait for the final worship song. I rushed off to the restroom to collect myself.

Afterwards, I found the lead pastor, thanked him, and told him how significant the sermon was to me. Then I said I hoped he could introduce me to a senior elder from the church to talk with. He listened seriously, then asked his assistant to help see which elder was present that day.

In truth, I only wanted to talk because I still considered myself part of this church—out of respect for the community I had committed to. But as the assistant guided me through the crowd and back into the venue, I truly hoped I’d get to sit down for a quiet, thoughtful conversation with someone like a grandfatherly ministry director.

So when I saw it was an enthusiastic female elder again, I felt disappointed. And, just as I had feared, our conversation was a disaster.

It was noisy, and she gave me only three minutes.

She first said, “If God calls you to be an astronaut, then just do it!” I grudgingly thought she was joking, although the joke was really inappropriate.

After I briefly explained my calling, she asked whether I was in a fellowship group, and who my leader was.

I thought she was not clear-headed. I had specifically asked to speak to a senior elder—why would she think someone who takes God’s calling this seriously could simply be handed over to a small group leader?

Then she glanced at the part of my declaration about the state of the church and immediately blurted out, “That is not the whole truth.” She told me not to criticize others.

I wondered if she was out of her mind. That wasn’t a criticism—it was a spiritual writer stating a fact. No one can ever speak “the whole truth,” but that was my truth at the moment, the precise doorway to the spiritual labor I’d been entrusted with. If she couldn’t see that door, she had no right to make an “authoritative judgment” in such a chaotic, rushed setting.

Then she said she couldn’t give me any advice—that this was between me and God. She kept repeating that I should seek God vertically, not fixate on the horizontal ecosystem.

I thought she was truly deranged. I wasn’t seeking “advice” or “comfort” for its own sake—I was seeking reverence for the weight of a divine calling. It was precisely through deep vertical seeking that I came to realize He was calling me to transform something horizontal. Would she dare tell Jesus not to change horizontal things too?

Then she read the part in my declaration where I affirmed my identity as a vessel, and exaggeratedly said it was “beautiful.” Then came a flood of Christian platitudes.

It seemed she was very seriously insane.—a minister who reads the Bible every day, yet utterly unaware of the gravity behind sacred language. I had already embraced spiritual writing as a sacrificial posture of life, and she reduced it to decoration with a single word: beautiful.

Finally, she strongly urged me to sign up for the church’s mentorship program. At first I thought she meant for me to mentor others—but she said, “They’ll put you on the waiting list and then arrange a mentor for you.”

I bit my tongue not to tell her that I personally know some of those mentors—and their heads are full of mush.

Of course, I said none of this. I remained as I always have—humble, restraining the sharp edges within me, leaving space for others’ good intentions. I let her believe she had helped, had understood me.

Because I truly don’t want to be demanding.

But the moment I turned and walked away after our prayer and hug, my smile dropped—as if I had just swallowed a fly whole.

I walked out of that building with my head down, hoping not to run into anyone, not wanting to greet a single soul.

From the Sagrada Família, I walked straight down the C-31 main road. The world bustled with color and life, but the sunlight made me dizzy.

I was out of sync with the frequency of all surrounding vibrations—unreconcilable, chaotic. I felt like a hedgehog covered in parasitic waves.

I thought: The mad one… is me.

When I got home, I had a terrible headache. I looked in the mirror—my face was as red as if I’d been roasted.

I collapsed into bed and slept like the dead.
…

I don’t remember how many dreams I had that afternoon.

I only remember one: the altar I’d once described in a childhood poem to God.

A breeze stirred the gauzy curtains. Soft white light filtered in. In front of the altar, a little girl was intently polishing a vessel in her hands.

From a distance, I watched her, wanting to tell her—

That vessel is called the cup of sorrow.

If, in the future, you find it filled with loneliness, empty it at the altar.

Once, twice, three times… now I’m preparing to pour it out for the sixth time.

Offer your loneliness as a sacrifice, and wait for Him to pour in a love more abundant.