Sunday, September 21, 2014

Letting Go. Part 1 of many...

The words. They sear, they sting, they trip. Ripping open, tears spilling. Deep down under the surface. Afraid to let them spill because there is no taking them back and words are more permanent than we give them credit for. I'm so careful with them because they mean so much to me. Too careful really. I find myself lately deciding to let loose. I've been faking it too long. I need to be real again. Real with myself first. Real with others. Real with Jesus. I've got to let those words bubble up and burst forth. They need to come out. The ones that have hurt aren't really buried. I need to release them. The ones I wanted to respond with, the ones I can respond with now. Yes.

This is good. I'm tired of being told how to feel. Mostly by people who don't get it, who haven't been there. It's so dumb. Can I just tell you gentle readers that you can absolutely, unequivocally, not, EVER tell someone how to feel. And doing so undermines them, their feelings, their freaking process. Please stop. Me too. God love us, let's just let people feel and deal how they need to. You can and at times should tell people their feelings are lies. I think that's legit because the enemy is definitely good at twisting things. But you can't tell someone not to feel something. That's like saying, "Hey, umm, don't breathe, kay?" Feelings are knee jerk, intuitive, fleshed out of the deep well of our hearts. Feelings are what makes us human. Feelings are not irrelevant or undependable. They can be problematic, but only if we let them. Kind of like our flesh. Or our  minds.I don't know about you, but I need to feel my feelings. Jesus gave me feelings and that is not a bad thing. I'll argue with you if you tell me otherwise. Just sayin. I'm not making them more than they should be, but I'm sick to death of making them less.

Her. I've felt the disconnect long. Many, many years. I've endured the problem area of me seeing life mature and thought out and Jesus lensed, and her seeing it immature and selfish. And me being "wrong" for that, in her eyes anyway. Her choosing drugs, stealing pain killers from me after my cancer surgeries and God knows how many others times. Her being absent when I needed her present. Either in mind or body. Holidays, birthdays, family events full of frustration. But we were still in tact. There was some kind of covering over us because the covenant remained. Or at least that's what I see now in retrospect. But now that the covenant is broken, I'm all broken with it. I feel like there aren't many differences between my perspective of this and a small child's. Do we ever really grow up? Sometimes I wonder. For all my years of experience and pain, I don't have a paradigm or lens for this. The brokenness. The hurt. The upheaval. The betrayal. I actually used the words, "Just talking to her makes me feel raped sometimes." And I know that's weighty, but when you put your heart on the line with one of the few people in the world who should care more than anyone and you get nothing, except your heart ripped out and stomped on, taken advantage of, what else do you call it? When you weep and wail and say "You've hurt me" and she says nothing. Or defends her actions. Or, the most common response, pushes her response back on something I've done. It's my fault she did X. I caused it. I pushed her to it. No ownership from her. And when pressed on that point, a snappy,sarcastic "You know what? I'm sorry." Mmhmm. Right. It feels abusive. And yet I have no instruction manual for this. How do you love, how do you interact, have relationship with, be Jesus to, this person? This one who seems perfectly content to start another life without me, her own flesh and blood. Her first flesh and blood. Bone of her bones. Goodness it cuts deep. I look at mine and can't imagine ever causing that kind of pain. The mere idea of it causes me grief.  How do you move forward with this person when the entirety of your past seems to sing pain, absence, years stolen, and you look at her and aren't sure who she is? She's a paradox to me.  A paradox because she supposedly loves me and yet has caused me more intense pain than any other person on the planet. Wow. I didn't realize that she had caused me more intense pain than any other person on the planet until now. Oh Jesus the brokenness. Please help Lord.

Transparency is a gift. Truly it is. I can't even handle all the facades that I see happening around me. We are a broken people. Who don't want to admit we're broken. Because we're afraid. We're afraid of being judged. We're afraid no one will understand or relate. We're afraid we'll be cast aside. We're afraid we're weird. We're afraid we're the only one who has had that happen to them or that has thought that thought. It's so gross. Satan is such a punk. We're all so twisted inside just screaming and pleading to let the words out, but we won't because a loud, lying voice says we have to keep appearances. Oh God that I would stop keeping appearances! Let me become even more undignified than this! Oh please let me Lord! Help me be one who sets the captive free. Help me be a voice crying out in the wilderness. What a gift and honor that would be Jesus.

Sometimes I feel like my words must go somewhere. We're taught early on that writing is linear. You plan, draft, revise, edit, publish. And walk away. I started unteaching my college students that years ago. Writing is not linear, or it shouldn't be. Healthier writing flows in a circular pattern (recursive process) where you circle back over your initial thoughts and flesh them out some more. Yes this is good. You go back to that thing you published and edit it again, or it produces something new and different. Right now as I type this, I keep thinking, "This should go somewhere," but it doesn't have to. My words are landing and that is enough for me right now. The fountain is flowing and I desperately need it to. And I realize I could write this in my journal, but I feel so strongly that what I'm enduring means something to the few readers I have (or a future reader?) that I don't want to keep it inside. How I would love to read that someone has endured my stuff and what that was/is like for them. I don't want to deny that blessing to someone else.

I'm in process. It's hard and ugly and tear filled. But at least I'm moving forward.

The Spirit of the Sovereign Lord is on me,
because the Lord has anointed me
to proclaim good news to the poor.
He has sent me to bind up the brokenhearted,
to proclaim freedom for the captives
and release from darkness for the prisoners,
to proclaim the year of the Lord’s favor
and the day of vengeance of our God,
to comfort all who mourn,
and provide for those who grieve in Zion—
to bestow on them a crown of beauty
instead of ashes,
the oil of joy
instead of mourning,
and a garment of praise
instead of a spirit of despair.
They will be called oaks of righteousness,
a planting of the Lord
for the display of his splendor.


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