At City Com we've been talking about pain in a series called, "Everybody Hurts...Sometimes." For me, these talks are nothing new and by no means uncomfortable. While others may be squirming in their seats, wishing we could talk about something lighter and happier, this is my comfort zone. It's easy for me to talk about pain - I am swimming in it every day. Surrounded by people aching to recover from abuse, addiction, and hopelessness, somewhere along the way this became easy for me. I love being "here" with people, walking in the valley of the shadow of death, together moving slowly onward, one day at a time, toward the light.
On Sunday, Nathan talked about embracing pain, not rushing through it, and being ok with walking slowly together through the wounds of life. I often explain this to the girls as, "Making peace with the process." What I'm realizing this morning is that I'm really good at "making peace with the process" for everyone else, but not so much for me. Where I would tell the girls that it's ok that they don't have it all together today, that they don't have to be perfect all the time, that they are allowed to fumble awkwardly through to restoration, I instead expect that for some reason, that's not ok for me. I've got to get it together - and quick.
I'm sitting here asking Jesus what's my problem this morning - why I can be so patient with everyone else and so impatient with myself - and He begins pressing old wounds. "Seriously?" I ask. "Do we really have to go there?" He reminds me of all the ways I'm afraid I'll be hurt again, all the times I did believe, but was disappointed; all the times I stood in faith on a mountain, and felt like God had stood me up. I know I don't want to heap this frustration on Him, so instead I heap it on me. "Get it together, Tara..."
I guess as I'm processing this message this week, I'm finding that some of my fears are bigger than I had thought. I am afraid that as long as I have been getting up and trying again (again and again and again), I just keep finding out that I'm still walking with that stinking limp. Maybe Jesus likes it this way... my fear is that people don't. I am finding that my fears are not so God-oriented as they are people-oriented. I know that He sits in the dark with me. I know the many lows we've risen from, and I know that He is present with me in peace and in pain. I'm not always sure this will be true of the people in my life, though... and that scares me. It makes me want to put a pretty face on, shove best foot forward, and make sure people won't go away. And I could do that... or, I could just be authentically me.
I could let the limp be.
I could stop feeling like I have to give an explanation for it every time someone doesn't seem to understand.
I could believe this is part of His beauty and grace in me - this broken and mended girl, who, though frightened, still believes, hopes, and trusts - or at least, chooses to trust, even when I don't feel it.
I could be ok with the fact that there are people who just won't 'get it,' and they don't have to.
I could hear the voice of Jesus whispering tenderly, "Courage, dear one," every time I want to hide again.
Today I'm resting sweetly in that "Courage, dear one," because today I do want to hide again. Today I want to sneak quietly back into that shell of mine and find safety from all opportunities for vulnerability and risk. But I was not born with a shell, and I will not live in one either. If I will be hidden, I will be hidden in Christ. Here I am safe; here I am strong. In my weakness, He is perfect. I'm not...He is.
And maybe a little bit more for today:
...I'm sitting here thinking now of the friends I like to refer to as my "Drinking Buddies," those people in my life who have sat in the ash heap with me, who have drank through life's highs and lows with me, patiently and faithfully. I'm thinking of the many times they have told me the truth, talked me down from the ledge, dared me to live, and reminded me who I am. I'm thinking of those many moments when my "awkward" kicks in, and they don't run away; when walls shoot up out of nowhere like lightning on a sunny day, and yet, they still remain. They are not afraid of the walls, they are not intimidated by my random acts of quietness - they just let it be. When we need to talk, we talk. When we need to cry, we cry. When we need to laugh... Brittany J. tries to teach me how to dance :)
Community can be a place where we are wounded, for sure. It can also be a place where we are wounded together. Where we heal together. Where we limp together and we laugh together. Where we lift our eyes to the always-real possibility of redemption together.
For a girl who has become much too acquainted with independence, I'm gravitating more and more toward this "togetherness." Though fear loves to lurk around relationships, it has not cornered the market. If fear is eliminated in love, then to overcome fear is to love gratuitously. I'm challenged today to be generous in love - regardless of return, regardless of vulnerability, regardless of consequence. This is truly what Christ has done...is doing...for me.
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