::a jumbly mess and gratefulness for that jumbly mess::
Yesterday morning, I woke up feeling awful.
I’d foolishly eaten some cake thinking it wouldn’t be that bad (I get sick when I eat Gluten) and…
Is that a term people use? Sometimes I say things that seem so normal to me and people look at me, blinky-eyed, unsure if it’s rude to laugh in response. Like the other day when I told Kristen I didn’t want to poop on her party. Apparently ppl say “i don’t want to be a party pooper.” not “i don’t want to poop on your party.” Whatever. Poop is poop, rules is rules, and heartaches hurt.
FTR, no one hurt me. No one did anything wrong. I’m just upset about the outcome of a situation in which no one is wrong but just isn’t what i want. So y’all put down the pitchforks and torches. But thx. :)
Anyway, I was on my knees (never one to forgo a taste of the histrionic ) and opened up my journal to find a note Lovey had snuck in some time last week.
“Be vulnerable,” she said. “There is so much of you that is a gift. Let us see the part that hurts, the part that wonders. Those are gifts too.”
Admittedly, I tell you a good portion of my hurts/doubts. You know. After the fact. With lots of gospel. Lest ye think God isn’t good enough when I write a post thats just a jumbly mess of hurtfusion.
So…may I please have permission from y’all to sometimes say just what I’m thinking/feeling? I mean, if you read this, and if you’ve ever met me, you probably know that I love Jesus. That I believe He is enough. That I enjoy him and life and that the Gospel is the truth to which I cling. Would it be okay with y’all if, sometimes, I just work that out on here?
I’m serious about this, y’all. I’m really asking the question: If you are a regular reader (and you can leave an anonymous comment!) is that something you’d like to read? Would that encourage you? For today, at least, for Lovey, who asked me, I’m going to be jumbly, hurt, confused, and heartsick. out loud.
You know even committing to that helps me feel a little better? And oh my stars, have I been feeling blah. Tears I didn’t know I had for an emotion I didn’t know still existed have been flooding over me and onto others this week. Not too many others. I mean, even though the only thing I can compare this hurt to is that which I felt last year, the first time I experienced an in-love heartbreak, I think only Supermama and The Social Worker know it’s going on. Hah. So much for authenticity.
Anyway. Hurt. Pain. Sickness. Confusion. Frustration. And a desperate wish that someone could hold me long and tight enough that I could shake this chill that goes all the way to the inside, deep into places that don’t physically exist. Ya’ll, my space heater is 5 inches from my body and it’s the latter half of May. In Texas.
And THEN, in the midst of all this weirdness that isn’t but feels comparable to being in the middle of an emotional blizzard (I’ve never been in a blizzard. I’d take one look at a blizzard and die.) I got asked to teach the younglings (I work in a children’s ministry at my church) the lesson this past week. Sure, I can do that. I can teach. Even though all I really want to do is not exist. Cause… well I don’t know why I said yes other than usually, that’s what I do. ;)
So let’s go back to 8:30 am yesterday. When I need to leave the apt to get to service to spend some time surrounded by Jesus and held tightly by him before I go teach les littles. (yes. im making these names up as i go) I just sorta fall over, and I see my journal. I flip through it and find Lovey’s surprising note. And I get up, wearing JEANS, no make up, hair undone, and go to work/church. Where I’ll see/be seen by a few THOUSAND people (most of whom don’t care in the sense that they are offended, I know, but still). Even though I want to cover up so no one is burdened by my hurt look, I’ll be vulnerable by not covering up the outside markings that I’m a mess. Cause I don’t really have the energy to do so anyway.
And right up until I get in front of los disciple-itos (the kids) I have no idea what I’ll do. So I open my mouth.
“Good morning,” i smile at them, sincerely but with little energy,”I’m going to tell you a not-very-secret secret. I don’t feel very well. Do you think you can do me a favor and pay extra special good attention to me today?” “Yes ma’am,” they replied, with the sweetest little concerned faces. And they did. They stuck through a 20 minute oral rendering of the story of David and Bathsheba. And when we were done, they raised hands and asked such sweet, confused questions.
“How could God do that? The baby died? He didn’t do anything.”
“Did Bathsheba know? Did she know that David killed her husband on purpose?”
For one of the first times I’ve ever seen, the kids were noticeably getting that the characters from their story were real people, with real hurts, with real hearts, that their stories were real stories.
And maybe-just-maybe, that’s partly out of the fact that I showed them a little more this morning about how I am a real person. With real hurts, and a real heart. And just so you know, my stories are real stories. So are yours, for that matter.