When you’ve had glimpses of the person God made you to be, without all the junk in the way, it’s really hard to like the person you are today. I don’t like her. She’s been easily irritated and sad. She’s unsure of herself and of other people. She doesn’t know how to love or be loved. In comparison to who she could be, she’s not very… pretty. Her brain is a wreck, and up there she’s stumbling over the ruins of old lives and old loves. When what used to be your foundation shatters and reveals it was only paper-thin glass, how do you build on? What do you build with? Are those bricks and mortar really just toothpicks and glue sticks? How do you love people when you find that the way you’ve always loved them was wrong? And even trying to “fix” how you love them is wrong because then you’re trying on your own and it’s not just an overflow, and that’s what got you here in the first place.
All the cogs in my brain spin counter-clockwise, and here God sits handing me clockwise cogs. I stare at them, feeling the cold, heavy iron in my palm. If I apply this, if I take it, it will surely jam the system. The gears will grind and get hot; the pressure will build. And maybe I’ll just explode.. It seems that would be easier.
This is where I’ve been since February. Lots of stuff has gone on around and over this, but this is the foundational reworking of my system.. and I just don’t get it. I honestly can’t process the information God has been giving me and having other people reiterate. I’m trying to fit these cogs in place, but now I’m jammed up; everything grinding and groaning as I come to a full stop.
And here in the silence, my brain having no where to go, hating the person I’ve been and having no idea how to become the person God wants me to be, I realize:
I don’t believe God could actually, genuinely love this me. This codependant, people-pleasing, insecure, brokenhearted, and bitter me. This me whose mind ping-pongs back and forth between the compulsion/”responsibility” to serve others by sacrificing my needs until I’m a martyr… somehow demonstrated by not buying the carton of chocolate chip cookie dough ice cream I wanted. [insert all eye-rolling emojis here] I know that probably makes no sense to you invisible readers, but I don’t care. I’m not writing this blog post for you. Its 2 hours past my bedtime and the whole house is asleep, but this is the only time of the day quiet enough to untangle my line of thought and smooth it along this table surface to get a good look at it.
It’s a mess.
And once again, my brain-whirring has ceased, and I hear the hollow echo in my chest cavity. I speak to the silence because I know His ear is inclined to hear.
How could You love this mess of a me? I know You’ve said You do. You’ve even gone so far to say that You don’t see it, but I always assumed that meant sin. You don’t see my sin because You see the righteousness of Your Son, of Jesus. His righteous robes cover over and change my tattered rags of sin into ones fit to boldly approach the throne of grace with confidence. But does His righteousness also cover my brokenness? My confusion? My lack of identity? My woundedness and frailty?
I feel like You put up with this me just because You’re excited for that me. And who could blame You? That one laughs and dances freely; rejoices and weeps without abandon. She isn’t caught up in others’ thoughts so she can finally just be: You in her thoughts and her in Yours. That me is going to be beautiful. But for now You plod along, and whenever I stray off course You tap your foot impatiently as a reminder because any time wasted here means more time You have to be around this me. And who would want that…
Ugh. I know that’s not truth. But right now it just feels like it. I know I could walk into the throne room and You could say the right words, give me the correct answers, and set it all straight. But for now, that doesn’t feel like what I need, and I’m losing motivation to come at all. Maybe I don’t want You to make it okay just yet because I’ve caught a hint that there’s something deep to uncover here, and I might miss if I leave the struggle too soon. I also don’t wanna shut You out.. I just don’t know how to invite You to come along. Or anyone for that matter. Who’d want to join me on this journey into my soul? Even I’d opt out if I could.
I realize that I’ve thought all this with my forehead and palm pressed against the doors that would open to Your throne room. I can’t go in. I can’t go home either. I crumple and lay on the floor, facing the door and pulling my knees to my chest. The polished stone floor is cold on the left side of my body, and I close my eyes as air seeps under the door to caress my face.
Torn in half, and resting in the reality of the middle, I fall asleep.
And You come, covering my shivering, child-like form with a blanket. A smile tugs unconsciously at my cheek as my muscles relax under the warmth. You smile and take a deep slow breath, knowing full well all the “right” that morning will bring.