It is a funny thing, perspective. Sometimes all it takes is a subtle shift and all of a sudden, the world looks very different than it did just moments before. Yesterday was not exactly an easy day. I was feeling the stress of waiting for the results of a medical test before my dear husband even started it. And when he walked out into the waiting room, I knew it had hit him too.
The ride home alternated between him trying to find the words to express what he was feeling, me trying to find the words to encourage him when I didn't feel so encouraged myself, and silence. Lots of silence. And in a twist of really bad timing, on a day when I was doing the very best I could at showing up, I received a pretty ugly text from a hurting person who wanted to hurt someone else. Bullseye.
Those words cut straight through all of the surface courage I had managed to muster that morning and hit me at the core of what I suspected might be true: Nothing I do is good enough. I am not good enough. Those feelings sat there like a heavy rock on my chest. And then I did the thing I knew I needed to do. I reached out to someone I knew would speak truth and healing to my heart. She listened and she reminded me of the things I knew, but had forgotten in that moment. Sick people--people with addiction and the brokenness that goes with it--can't love people. It isn't in their skill set. And as much as we could use their love--especially when we are hurting--we just can't expect it. They are doing what they can with what they have. I listened for several minutes to these words that spoke the truth of people I love who can't love me back. And I listened to her speak my truth. I am hurting, but I am loved. And it is a deep, deep love filled with grace and mercy.
You can't be reminded of that kind of love and stay the same. That love--the words of God on the lips of a person who has let themselves be changed by that love, changed me. It helped me unfurl my fists. And that rock that had been sitting on my chest, so heavy and suffocating, began to move. I learned once again rocks can be moved and our wounds healed when we pray with our hands open.
The ride home alternated between him trying to find the words to express what he was feeling, me trying to find the words to encourage him when I didn't feel so encouraged myself, and silence. Lots of silence. And in a twist of really bad timing, on a day when I was doing the very best I could at showing up, I received a pretty ugly text from a hurting person who wanted to hurt someone else. Bullseye.
Those words cut straight through all of the surface courage I had managed to muster that morning and hit me at the core of what I suspected might be true: Nothing I do is good enough. I am not good enough. Those feelings sat there like a heavy rock on my chest. And then I did the thing I knew I needed to do. I reached out to someone I knew would speak truth and healing to my heart. She listened and she reminded me of the things I knew, but had forgotten in that moment. Sick people--people with addiction and the brokenness that goes with it--can't love people. It isn't in their skill set. And as much as we could use their love--especially when we are hurting--we just can't expect it. They are doing what they can with what they have. I listened for several minutes to these words that spoke the truth of people I love who can't love me back. And I listened to her speak my truth. I am hurting, but I am loved. And it is a deep, deep love filled with grace and mercy.
You can't be reminded of that kind of love and stay the same. That love--the words of God on the lips of a person who has let themselves be changed by that love, changed me. It helped me unfurl my fists. And that rock that had been sitting on my chest, so heavy and suffocating, began to move. I learned once again rocks can be moved and our wounds healed when we pray with our hands open.
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