You know that expression - "Don’t forget where you came from?" It’s a favorite of mine. Mainly because when we are able to see where we come from, I mean really get a clear, uncluttered view of where we were, it really shows us, me, how much grace has been extended. Perhaps that is what should be remembered. Not just where we come from.
But the grace that takes us from where we were, cleans us off, wipes our face, and sets us down, clothed in love and compassion.
Grace is such an amazing gift.
Sometimes, I think, we don’t know how bad off we really are.
We become so used to the turmoil, that it becomes normal to us. We get comfortable with it, learn how to manage, and then assume that is the best life has to offer.
But it’s not.
It’s been awhile since I wrote Man Part 1. It is a post so full of rage, disappointment and anger; I knew I couldn’t do that twice. There’s a fine line between getting it out and dwelling on it. Knowing when to say “enough” is crucial. Otherwise you walk away feeling worse than you did when you started.
Even though it may be necessary to regurgitate, you still need to flush it down the toilet.
However, in order to complete Man Part 2, I must finish where I left off on Man Part 1.
With my questions, and my anger, at God. Jesus. Man.
Seventeen was an intense year. I moved in with my boyfriend, graduated high school, gave birth to my daughter, and tried desperately to figure out how to be a mom and a “wife.”
I wasn’t very good at it.
It’s very painful to think of now. The insecurities I had ran deep and rough, like a ravine full of jagged rocks and black holes. That’s how I was. Jagged and piercing, scraping anyone that got too close and the black holes of emptiness ran through, devouring me. I knew the person I wanted to be but I had no idea how to get there.
And that made the blackness worse, the despair greater.
It’s a wicked cycle.
When I look back at my 17 year old self, I want to weep for her. I can see all the mindless spinning and fear and if I look a little closer, I know I’ll see the devil standing there in a corner, watching….. laughing…… patting himself on the back for being such a sly sucker.
I would lose my temper quicker than you could blink. One second I would be fine and the next, a hot rage would overwhelm me and nothing was safe. I would scream, yell, cry, throw myself against the wall, and beat my kid’s dad. I would throw anything I could get my hands on.
Each time I broke a window, a plate, a glass, a picture frame….. I knew i was breaking, shattering into pieces, this fragile life I was attempting to build.
One time I threw a frying pan with such force, the handle stuck in the wall. It hung there, waist high in the wall, the pan itself seeming to stare at me in accusation, telling me how bad I sucked.
I was so terrified. Of myself, of what was in me. I didn’t know how to fix it.
Or worse, if I was even fixable.
I would sob in front of Shaun and tell him over and over that I wanted to get better but I didn’t know how. I wasn't sure if I could. I was consumed by fear that I would wind up alone because I was so awful. Prophetic words, it turns out.
Nevertheless, the hopelessness was so tangible I felt like it was strangling me.
Shaun became friends with this guy and started going to church with him. Turns out this guy was a preacher’s kid and an aspiring youth pastor.
I had no interest in going to church.
I was quite vocal about it. I know. Shocking.
His friend would come to our house sometimes and I would taunt him, be purposefully rude, to try and get a reaction.
He would tell me that he loved me and that God loved me too.
I would tell him to fuck off and God could do the same.
Last I had checked, “God” hadn’t done much for me.
He would smile, not in a condescending way, just regular, and laugh, “ok, ok.”
He’d let me be. But I wouldn’t. I’d get in his face every chance I could. I would say things like, “I don’t need any motherfucking God or stupid ass church or any goddamn religious people telling me what the fuck to do.”
Charming, wasn’t I?
I mean, it went beyond just not wanting to go to church. I was offended by the entire suggestion that I should. Why exactly? No one knew my life, what I had been through.
Who was he, who were they, to judge me?
I could do it on my own. Just like I had been.
I was one of the most unlovable people you would ever meet. I had nothing to offer, nothing to give, except negativity and loneliness.
The only person I showed any real, honest love to was my daughter. And even that was not promising. Don’t get me wrong, I never abused her. Ever. I loved her so much I thought my heart would explode from my body.
But I found this feeling absolutely terrifying. Mostly because I was so completely sure I was going to screw it up. It wasn’t a question of if, but when, and how badly.
I don’t know how it happened but Shaun wore me down. I must have lost a bet or something because even though I don’t remember how my going to church that first time came about, I do recall that I was extremely pissed about it.
I walked into church that day with a chip on my shoulder and an attitude the size of the pacific ocean. I was wearing blue plaid boxer shorts with a white hanes t-shirt and flip flops. I was hell-bent on not trying to be “nice.” If they really wanted me, they were going to get me.
The real me.
I am pretty sure I was laughing inside thinking I was so smug. Screw those self-righteous bastards.
Thank God He knows us better than we know ourselves. I needed love. My entire soul was yearning for it. I just didn’t know what it was.
I walked in and the first person that came up to me was a little grandma that looked like she was 80 years old. I looked at her, nose up, face rigid, rebellion oozing out of my pores. She reached her hand out to me and said, “Welcome. I’m Ruby. You look like you could use a hug.”
So she gave me one.
Well, she tried.
It’s difficult to hug a board.
I walked to a seat and looked around. There were about twenty people there. More than half looked like Ruby.
They must have thought I was the spawn of Satan. Me, in my boxers. Ha.
But if they did, they didn’t show it. Not one person looked down on me. No one looked away from my glances of defiance and hatred. I’m sure it showed all over me. Never had much of a poker face.
And I did hate it. Oh yes.
I hated the singing. I hated the clapping.
People put their hands in the air and I thought they were freaks.
I hated the offering plate. Churches. All they want is people’s money.
I hated the sermon. All about Jesus and his forgiveness. Whatever. Forgiveness? Bite me.
I hated the end when the preacher offered for anyone to come up front and get “saved” or prayed for. Idiots. How about thinking for yourselves? Get saved from what?
I hated the crying and all the “Thank you Jesus!” Please. Weeping is for people who are weak.
I hated it all.
But I went back.
Why?
It was the grandmas that got me.
You see, they were so sweet. I’ve never had anyone be nice to me just because they wanted to give of themselves. When these ladies hugged me, the board, they weren’t put off by how stiff I was, or how I barely spoke to them, or the outfits I insisted on wearing. No, these ladies saw beyond what I showed them.
They looked at me with eyes of love.
They could see the pain on my face as clearly as if I had written it on my forehead with black marker.
“Look at me!
I am in pain.
I am unloved.
I have been hurt.
I have been let down.
I have been stepped on.
Please, please…love me.”
Oh yes, they saw this with their eyes. But not their human eyes. Not the ones that make judgments and condemnations and dismissals.
No, they looked at me with God eyes.
I just didn’t know it yet.
God has a way of working in our lives long before we know what’s happening. Even when we are resisting Him, pushing Him away with all of our might, He is sending people our way to show us his love, to see us, with God eyes.
To see beyond what we project, what we allow others to know.
To see past our façade and our practiced smiles.
He gives God eyes so that we can see deeper and so we can show His love.
To someone that is hurting.
To someone that has been let down.
To someone that has been stepped on.
To someone, even, that has got themselves believing everything is fine and they are ok and don’t need anyone or anything.
To all of us.
When we start to see people with God eyes, our hearts begin to break. That is good. Our hearts should break. Everyone has a story, a hurt, a fear. Everyone has that spot that needs to be filled with love.
I started going to that church every week. I marveled at the grandmas and my distrust of them, of the world, of the church, was slowly being chipped away.
God? Jesus? Um, still no. Don't Push It.
Six months later.
I was 7 or 8 rows from the front where the preacher stood. I have no idea what he preached on but at the end, I stood up with everyone and we started singing. I had grown to like the singing.
I found it very……..comforting.
As I stood there, singing, I heard a voice. No, not audible, but it very clear. I don’t know how to explain it. It was in my head but it wasn’t me.
There’s no way I would have told myself this.
Voice: “Walk up.”
Me: “No.”
Voice: “Walk up.”
Me: “NO. I don’t want to. I can’t.”
Voice: “Don’t be afraid. It’s me.”
Me: “Who’s me?”
Voice: “It is I, Jesus. I am here and I am with you.”
My eyes flew open. I looked around. My hands were clammy. I was beginning to feel sick to my stomach. Singing was going on everywhere but for me, it was as if time had stopped. Mouths were moving but I wasn’t hearing that. I was hearing him.
And I was stunned.
I closed my eyes and I tried not to cry.
But I did. I cried. I stood there and I cried.
Again. “Walk up. Don’t be afraid. I am here.”
I opened my eyes again. I wanted to say no. Part of me did. The part that had so many questions but could be broken down into just a few. Why? Why? And why?
But then the other part of me…….
I started walking. The closer I got to the front, the faster my tears began to fall. The faster my tears came, the urge to run filled me.
Then I was there. Nothing crazy happened. Lightening didn’t tear through the ceiling. A voice of thunder didn’t boom out, “Hey you! What are you doing here? I know what you did!” I didn’t drop dead when I got there.
But I did drop to my knees.
I couldn’t stand. How could I? I knew without a doubt that He was right there with me. The tears were not from fear or shame. I was being…....cleansed.
It was like my body was giving my soul a bath.
And I knew that He was holding me.
I can’t explain it but I know He was. He was holding me like a child. He filled me with an unconditional love. I felt it.
Literally.
It was like molasses moving within me, slow and steady, spreading to every crevice, not leaving anything out. Total, complete, consumption.
It was the most beautiful thing. Ever.
I have heard it said, that once you have an experience with Jesus, nothing will ever make you forget it. You will not waver because you know that you know. If someone else doesn’t know, it’s only because they haven’t met him. And if they haven’t met him, it’s because they didn’t want to.
Jesus touched me that day. I cry now as I think of it. I was never the same.
It’s funny. Sometimes I will have someone confront me and say that just because I need Jesus doesn’t mean they do. My initial reaction is to stand up and take offense, to say hey, I’m not weak, I don’t need anything.
But then I catch myself. Because I know that I do.
And that's ok.
There’s nothing wrong with being dependent. Aren’t we all? Aren’t we designed to be? We are made to interact and have contact.
Hello! We are obsessed with relationships!
If I choose Christ, the Creator, then, so what?
He is the strength when I am weak.
I know it is God who gave me the strength and the will to endure everything I have been through.
(I know this is long, I am almost done. Promise. This is the second time my laptop has been ready to die on me.)
I was arrested when I was a teenager. The first time I was in juvenile hall, I was 13. I was there for three months. In that entire three months, I don’t think I met one person who felt like they deserved to be there. Oh sure, they had committed a crime but everything was someone else’s fault.
This attitude disgusted me. It reminded me of them. All the finger-pointers and blame -hangers.
To me, if you are going to do something wrong, then at least have the balls to man up about it. Don’t cry and say it’s not your fault because something bad happened to you.
Something bad happens to everyone.
It’s what we do with it that makes the difference.
Right then is when I learned the lesson of taking responsibility. I tell this part of my life because, you see, I had blamed God for so long for actions that had nothing to do with Him. I realized i couldn't hold God accountable for my grandfather any more than those teenage girls could blame their moms, dads, friends or enemies for that matter.
We are all responsible for ourselves.
I can’t say it any better than C.S. Lewis did so I will quote him.
“God created things which had free will. That means creatures which can go either wrong or right. Some people think they can imagine a creature which was free but had no possibility of going wrong; I cannot. If a thing is free to be good it is also free to be bad. And free will is what has made evil possible. Why, then, did God give them free will? Because free will, though it makes evil possible, is also the only thing that makes possible any love or goodness or joy worth having. A world of automata – of creatures that worked like machines – would hardly be worth creating.” - Mere Christianity
I can’t say that I trust men now 100% and that everything is just peachy.
I’m a Christian – I don’t lie. Or blow smoke.
I do still have trust issues and yes, sometimes I am still angry.
But I can say that the trust has improved exponentially.
I can say the anger is decreasing consistently.
I throw things less and less.
I am human. I will not always be a great example. I will make mistakes. I will be the one that lets someone else down, or hurts them, or steps on them.
But I will try to make it right. I will be sorry.
And I will see – with God’s eyes.
And I will love.
And I will forgive.
Even a man.
Even that one. I'm still working on it.
I know that at the end of the day, I have to be right with God, with my own choices and all the consequences that surround them.
Being angry isn't helping.
Neither is hating men.
Letting go - is.
Friends, Phoenix, and the sun hot like FIRE
1 year ago