what he wants

he needs me to write this.  To sit down and fill my teeth with grit; to grab hold of a knife and to slice.  To let it pour out, spilling over the keys as they form the words that condemn.  he needs me to hurt like he hurts; feel the wretched pain of a life interrupted by lies and deceit.  To be left wandering aimlessly, searching for answers to the ambiguous 'why' that haunts everyone from time to time.

he needs me to write this.  To break down the image that's crafted on the screen; to give the real rather than the polished.  To be more authentic, because, as I've been told, I'm not genuine enough.  Or, rather, at all.  he needs me to feel raw and exposed, turning out my soft underbelly for the world to see; so they can gawk and judge and turn their backs.

What he needs you to know is my sin.  The way I selfishly took to the keys and punched out a response to a message that, in essence, began rolling a pebble down a sh*t-covered mountain.  The way I chose to continue a conversation; to build a relationship; with a person who was most certainly standing on a clearly marked path of destruction.  he wants you to hear of my disrespectful, reprehensible sin.  The words and images exchanged across thousands of miles that sealed my fate as one of those people.  One of the women who sidestepped the path of a blessed life in exchange for a path hidden; overgrown with thorny vines of lies and knotty underbrush of deceit.  he wants you to acknowledge.  to point.  to condemn.  to label me for what I am.  liar.  adulterer.

he wants to make sure I'm seen be the world; by the culture in which we live, as among the lowest of low, the weak, the pathetic.  he wants you to see the crappy way in which I put my marriage and family and future and reputation in jeopardy for selfish motives.  he wants you to see me as inferior; self-centered, inadequate, less than.  he wants you to know that I'm disloyal, unworthy of trust.  he wants you to unfriend, dislodge, turn away.  he wants to discredit me.  he wants me to feel lonely.  hurt. suffer consequences.  he paints me with shame. guilt. disgust.  and he wants you to do so as well.  he wants to destroy.

he needs you to know the extent of what happened so you can realize I'm not who I portray myself to be.  he needs you to think of my faults and my faults alone; not recognizing the ongoing work that's going on inside of me.  he doesn't want you to acknowledge or believe there's been a transformation.  a shedding of ugliness, sinfulness.

he wants me to be scared.  to be terrified by my truth rather than own it.  to let it consume me like fire; turn me to ashes and watch me drift away; unnecessary and forgotten.

he wants you to think the worst of me.

and, often times, more often than I openly let it be known; he wins.  his thoughts and words and glares and taunting poke holes that I scramble to cover.  they bring self-loathing and tears and disappointment leaving me to stare back at a reflection that is appalling.  one that weakens my heart and leaves me questioning if I'll ever find true confidence and self-forgiveness.

the boomerang that brought me back from the ugliness of lies has firmly landed in a space of repentance, vulnerability, truth, repair.  but sometimes, many times, he whispers slyly in my ear; giving me pause as I assess my worthiness as a wife, mom, teacher, friend, Christian.

he wants me to think of my wickedness and selfishness.  to jump into a pit of shamefulness and evil because that's obviously where such destructive, malignant decision-making comes from.  a cell of nefarious wrongdoing that multiplied as snake-like tentacles of immorality craftily spread throughout my mind and soul.  in its wake, a vast, empty surface devoid of trustworthiness and shame, a shroud over any positive lens through which I am viewed.

oh, his wants are deep.  he struggles with seeing joy in my life; quickly snapping it up as an angry gator devouring its prey, turning it into a bloodied carcass of guilt and doubt, self-loathing and fear.  he makes me wonder what kind of person I am, makes me doubt my abilities; who am I to teach my children right and wrong, to lead a bible study, to show my face in church and openly praise and pray?

he lurks around dark corners; meets me in my flutters of sleep; smacks me dead in the face when I'm driving or cooking or watching tv or playing with my kids.  his tactics are fierce; snares set intentionally and methodically, little bombs of viciousness left to explode precisely at moments when I'll fall furthest and hardest into his pit.  he knows exactly what he is doing.

after all, he's been practicing his schemes, perfecting his manipulations, and implementing his campaign for centuries.  sometime after the creation of angels but before tempting Adam and Eve, his pride found him in the midst of a dilemma.  for the role of God was already fulfilled; yet he still desired the title for himself.  his refusal to serve God ultimately resulted in this 'fall'.  he found himself  'cast out'.

imagine his hatred.  how he must despise God and His people.  I picture an anger growing and growing; building and building to a point where he is satisfied by the complete destruction of what God has created.  I picture his temper stewing, bubbling over angrily at times; but also see his cunning and sly smirk, savagely picking off individuals by feasting on their weaknesses; highlighting their sins, and using them as weapons of mass destruction.  he crafts a world on earth where the human race begins to unravel itself; a skilled puppeteer, maniacally and adroitly maneuvering his marionettes as we all move along the planet, interacting with the toxicity in which he leaves lying around like banana peels, eagerly waiting for the slip so he can point and laugh and relish in his repugnant design.

but does he know?  does he know that even though it feels at times like he's winning; at times he can label me a cheater, a liar, a sham; that he's going to lose?  does he know that regardless of what he thinks; what he gets others to think; that I'm going to come out victorious?  I'm going to come out from under this mess as not just a person with a past, but a person with a purpose.  I'm going to find my worth and see my value and feel confidence that while, yes, my actions were sinful and broken and shocking, they actually can be forgivable?  They aren't meant to be forgettable, no, no; for the scars of sin serve as reminders of what strength we have gleaned from their sting.  The scars are proof to us that our battles are real, they're tough and strenuous, and can often times be a byproduct of someone else's poor choices.  But they show us our survival.  They prove we can be bold and brave and make a choice to change.  To make a fresh start on a path paved with hope and trust and faith.  The skin of a scar might seem tender; a soft spot of which to avoid.  But it's in those scars where we find strength of two pieces of us, knit back together with bonds of forgiveness, love, and grace.  True, they are and always will be our spots of extra-vulnerability.  The places we guard most fiercely because our memory burns with the fires of pain and hurt.  But in time, the pain of our hurts; the fires we've started in ourselves and in others, the result of his rule of this earth will be smothered.  The oxygen that feeds them; the culture in which we live, judgement of others, whispers of his voice, grasping tentacles of his wickedness; all will be eradicated.  The ashes of the fires that burned so fiercely will be proof that it happened; but the phoenix that arises from those ashes will leave everyone in awe and wonder.  he will exist no more, because HE reigns over heaven and earth.

and I'm sure he doesn't want me to write that.

grace hour

We're falling into somewhat of a routine now that school is back in full swing; backpacks hang on hooks in the hall, lunches are composed at ungodly hours in the dark of a half-caffeinated morning, homework completed and checked under the watchful eye of a mom who knows the ultimate goal is to run back outside for more playtime.  And earlier bedtimes.  Bless.

The gift of sleep is one greedily consumed by my children at 6 a.m.; which makes for grunty, stretchy mornings where the conveyor belt of 'dress, eat, brush, pack, shoes, hug dad, car' is the mechanism for which I rely upon in order to have our stereotypical suburbanite Suburban rolling down the driveway at oh-seven hundred.

Last year, the dance of school children out the door on time did not factor in one adorably lovable, yet highly frustrating caveat.  Last year, it did not matter if my little sensory sweetie was fully dressed and ready to go, or freshly out of bed sporting a super snarled coif and precariously filled pull-up.  I could just pop her in the car seat alongside her obligatory five stuffed accouterments and away we'd go; the promise of an entire extra hour to lazily get her ready for kinder prep.

Oh, to have that hour.

The hour that included easing into choosing clothes that felt 'right' that day, food that was crunchy or smooth or dry enough, hair that was slowly brushed over the course of many minutes and with a multitude of distractions from the apparent pain the brush was causing.  The hour that allowed a trial run of the shoes that would go 'just right' with the outfit and were comfy enough {not to mention the battle of the irksome sock seam that NEVER seemed to cooperate}.  The hour that included not just one, but many, many hugs; hugs to calm and console and create peace.

But this year.  

One less hour, all the same struggles.  The feels and textures and pressure and inside turmoil that turn into outward aggression and anger and sadness and confusion.  Compounding the challenge is the need to be mom-in-triplicate and ensure my older two still get attention and affection and needs met.  All while operating on a less-than-adequate dose of caffeine.  Let's just say, we have driven to school with more than one of us in sniffles on more than one occasion {and it's just week 2}.

After a series of exceptionally challenging days, and a morning ride to school that was 98% stalemate; 2% expressions of love, I find myself in tears yet again.

Why can't I just take it easy?  Be gentle with her, she is soft and tender and doesn't always know how to express what she's feeling or how this big, outside world is affecting her vulnerable, sensitive insides.  Speak softly and with kindheartedness; for she will respond much more easily when wrapped in obvious love.  

And it struck me.  Who am I talking about?  My daughter, or myself?  

When they placed that tiny, spindly little body on mine right after she was born, my heart skipped a beat or two; just as it had done with my first and second little miracles.  I was looking into the face of God, as He revealed himself on earth.  A baby.  A human being with all the pain and struggle and feelings and joys that come along with living on this planet and with other human beings.

Only this human became mine for the raising.  This human looks to me to learn and understand what it means to love, to grieve, to be a friend, to live out the life our Creator has given us.  The trouble is, I am still trying to figure out those things myself.  And, often times, I fail miserably.  

Take the past two weeks of school, for instance.  I keep telling myself I will not raise my voice or yell or scream or shout or spank her little bottom when she whines and cries and struggles to person.  I tell myself I will be loving and understanding.  I will calmly speak, carefully explain, and eagerly try to decipher what potentially could be throwing her off course.  

But then that sound pierces the air.  And my current love is masked by sudden irritation because there is, as far as I'm concerned, absolutely NO reason under the sun for her to be squawking like a deranged parakeet because I have asked her to choose between a bagel or a banana.  Two items she had suggested to me the night before as we discussed what our morning routine would look like, and as we prayed for peace and patience and words to describe how we were feeling.

So we boldly defy the prayers that escaped our lips just hours before; voices become louder and snippier, clipping the morning air with a harshness that should not be associated with children and tender souls and little hearts attempting to absorb truth about life and mold a foundation upon which to grow and thrive.  We have a standoff.  Anger.  Threats.  Consequences.  Tears.  Sniffles.  Guilt.  Shame.

What I really want to do; what I really should do is take that squirming, thrashy, flailing, croaking girl and wrap her in my arms.  Envelop her in safety and reassurance and easement.  Advocate for her feelings that she just can't seem to verbalize in a calm and rational tone.   Allow her to feel loved and accepted for the tiny person that she is; the tiny person trying desperately to disentangle the web of her brain; the tiny person who is looking for a way to break into life as an independent, brave, confident, kind person, with valid and true feelings.  What I should do is give her grace.

What I really should be doing is looking in a mirror.  Because ultimately, I am.  

My little human, this tiny person whom God entrusted to me, is *so* my mirror.  And in more than just the extra long-legged, chocolate-eyed, button-nosed genetic way.  In the heart way.  The soul way.  The extra-feeling-y way.  The struggle with verbalizing what is truly going on.  The pain of feeling 'off' and 'out' and 'odd' when the whole rest of the world seems to be grooving along, getting it.  

Having lived long enough, I know, of course, that those people who all seem to be getting it are in fact more than likely feeling closer to my end of the spectrum; flailing and thrashy, treading water that just keeps swirling in an unhealthy current.

But what I want, what I really, really want is for that facade to be dropped.  For the curtain to fall and Oz to be revealed.  I want my sweet girl, {me!} to be know that it's entirely okay, and, in fact, normal for us to feel this off and odd feeling.  When we struggle to express our souls, it's not necessarily because we have a lack of words; but a lack of freedom, a lack of acceptance.  A lack of grace.

Somewhere along the line, it has become 'not okay' to have these deep and big and inexplicable feelings.  It's become inappropriate to sit down and say, "I need help.  And not just with my homework or my job or my car or getting my kid's swing set built in the backyard.  But real, actual, help.  I need to feel safe to share my fears and worries.  I need to feel like the fact that I have all this stuff swirling around inside my soul is okay.  Understood.  Accepted.  Worthy."  

I need my girl to grow up knowing that her struggles aren't really that.  They're not bad or shameful or in need of being hidden.  But they're special.  Unique.  Transforming.  They're the exclusive hurdles that God has blessed her with; not to make it harder, but to give her a place where she can not just gracefully leap, but beautifully thrive.  Where she can share her soul and not be afraid.  Where she can leap with joy and should she stumble; feel brave and confident enough to know that regardless of how the world responds and what they may think or do or say; that she is just fine.  More than fine.  She is perfect.  She is His.

I want my tiny human; my mini-me; my mirror into my past, present, future, and purpose to feel that gentleness.  To hear that soft, kindhearted voice that lets her{me} know it's okay, it's okay, it's okay.  The shush and lull of a quiet but strong embrace in obvious love that gives reassurance not rushing, empathy not anger, understanding not frustration, and comfort not shame.  The world will respond.  They will judge and fix and assume and shame and guilt and yell and squawk and scream and shout.  They will hold it against you, hold it over your head, hurl it in your direction in angry, ugly, accusatory, comparative tones that make you feel small and inadequate and less than and not enough.  

The world is going to rebel.  They're going to be squirmy and thrashy and flailing because they can't handle the real.  The truth.  The imperfection that is really total perfection of a human being.  They're going to withhold grace because it feels wrong and weird and crazy to give unmerited favor to an imperfect, messy, broken person.  A person who messes up and boldly defies and reacts rather than responds.  Yes.  It seems crazy.  And maybe it is crazy.  It isn't something meant for our understanding; grasping the why of this amazing grace.  There is only One who understands that why.  Maybe one day we'll learn.  Maybe one day we'll look upon this earth and see--really, truly see.  

"Ohh," we'll say.  "now I get it.  Now I see."  We'll see those moments; those missed opportunities; those shattered, sad, defeated souls, pocked with the scars of unforgiveness.  And we'll sigh.  We'll grasp our chests and pray for peace.  Pray for understanding.  Pray for that soul to feel okay.  We'll say grace.  

Why do we wait?  Why do we withhold blessing those with whom we share life and love and earth?  Why do we hoard our grace; only to sprinkle it out in small amounts, carefully and methodically over the people and situations that we deem 'most worthy'?  Why do we not take that time, sit down with that person, know them.  Hear them.  Invest in them.  Make it safe for them to share their vulnerable, sensitive insides; not just because you want to fix or feel better about yourself or become a gossip reporter; but because you can share yours, too.  And it can be good.  More than good.  It can be beautiful.  It can be freeing.  All it takes is tenderness and time.

I want to take that hour.