Somewhere down the line, I’ve found you less and less therapeutic. More of a burden. Each time I pick you up, you unapologetically grip the sorest parts of my heart and hastily pry them open. Abrasively letting yourself in. Intruder. You try to convince me that this openness is a good thing. But each time you begin to reveal a hidden piece of myself you want me to discover, I get the slightest glimpse of a pain I know too well and—
—how dare you!
How dare you linger day and night in my room, watching me, waiting for me to run to you when all I want to do is run away. To run and hide in a forest with flowers full of medicinal powers that will somehow heal those deep cracks and bruises from the outside in. To lay leaves and ferns on my skin without me having to acknowledge what’s underneath. To be filled with scented roses that can pulse through my body… only to realize that the scent is a temporary distraction from the thorns that snag my wounds and tear them deeper and deeper with each stride as I hide… and run away… from you.
So either way… I’m doomed. I hide from you. I avoid you. And I bleed from the inside out. Delusionally floundering in false delight… or, I face you. I pick up my pen and I write about this pain that you’ve been trying to show me. The messy stitches of my heart untie, leaving my wounds wide open, unlocking agony that flows through my mind and bleeds onto the page. I let you rummage through the ugliest parts of me that I would never want to share with anyone else. And here I am… sharing them with you. Creating a door into my life that will exist beyond myself. I write about things I didn’t know I knew. I deny my experiences. Maybe I’m remembering wrong. I should be grateful. I justify their actions. I justify my actions. Maybe if things were different I could… maybe if I had this I would… finally, after negotiating with you, I break.
When I write in you, I break.
The aching doesn’t bleed through my pen fast enough and leaks from my eyes instead.
When I write in you, I break.
I draw my knees close to my chest, hoping that somehow I’ll feel more like I’m in one piece instead of shards of glass on the floor.
When I write in you, I break.
My soft cries disappear in the silence. I stay there. Mute. In my lowest, most vulnerable space.
And then I remember this:
There was a man who broke his body before me… for me.
In my brokenness, I remember:
This man told me that he wants me. The most broken, shattered, and lowly in life. Those filled with death, shame, and sorrow. He sees broken and puts a claim on it.
In my brokenness, I hear:
Trust me and we’ll handle them one at a time. Ever so carefully and gently.
I promise I won’t tear you apart but I’ll put you back together and mold you into exactly who you’re supposed to be… with me
You make me resent breaking.
But He provides a safe space for me to be undone.
You force things out of me.
Jesus graciously fills me.
Unlike you who pries me open. Jesus invites me with care. To redeem what is lost.
When I write in you, I break. But when I am broken, I am closest to the one who made me. I am closest to the one who gives breath to my lungs. I am closest to the only one who can heal me. When I bleed in agony and am dragged by the weight of the world, Jesus picks up that weight and whispers to me, "I’ve already paid for this pain. Let me carry it."
In my brokenness, I am already whole because of the one who broke himself before me… for me.
"The Lord is close to the brokenhearted
and saves those who are crushed in
spirit." (Psalm 34:18)
"In my distress I called to the Lord;
I cried to my God for help.
From his temple he heard my voice;
my cry came before him, into his ears."
(Psalm 18:6)
"Into your hands I commit my spirit;
deliver me, Lord, my faithful God...
I will be glad and rejoice in your love,
for you saw my affliction
and knew the anguish of my soul.
You have not given me into the hands of
the enemy
but have set my feet in a spacious place."
(Psalm 31:5-8)
"The Lord will fight for you; you only need to be still."
(Exodus 14:14)
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