Shameless Plug

I’m scared to believe in good things.

     Because I fear naivety will leave me wide open for assault, a fool before a firing squad… and contrary to popular belief do I think this stifle God’s blessing of me, or Him giving me good things, certainly not, because God cannot cease to be good. God is good. The effect of my broken and paranoid psyche is something entirely different. Good things strike a deep fear in my heart. Gifts become shrouded with doubt of authenticity or infected with suspicions of manipulation. My dreams become a potential to lose yet something else and fear of materialism or a potential source of ridicule and taunting.

     And I can celebrate good things, but far and separated from my heart and spirit. I can sit and watch from the sidelines, smile and now partake, like a living play or movie unfolding before me. It wasn't until recent years that people started pulling me in, inviting me to dance and play and share with them, if they saw me, and this too ended up feeling wrong. A hand extended to my loneliness became a source of guilt, of “playing the victim” or “fighting to attention.” So I playing-ly joked with God, “Why did you give me a gift that can only be shared in spot light, when I hate being seen? Is it to torture my false humility?” Because we all want to be seen, I gesture, but maybe not the center of attention narcissistic way, but to be known and loved.

     Then what of love that feels wrong, because you were beaten into thinking your very heart is wrong? Perhaps it’s seen as “wrong” because you have been designed beautifully and someone said that is wrong, that is too much, that it is in some sort of sense defined as evil.

     Walking with God He has tenderly shown me who He sees, not something wrong, but the little girl He loves and longs for, but in every good moment, now, in all my brokenness, there still come moments that the image is ripped from my hands, and I am left crippled.

     Then I see her shut down, that glowing face of joy and playfulness disappears in a slow fading aching moment. The shell of a woman is there again, paralyzed. Suddenly she is a spectator of play and celebration, of beauty and life. Again, she sees all the reasons why she shouldn't dance, play or sing, especially with and around others, especially anywhere she could be seen, and I silently pull her aside searching for excuses that is would seem a choice to sit it out instead of speaking against the silent death she is facing. Again, that little girl is a ball or fire and poison who should be locked away, or snuffed out. Again she is a weak, tiny, frail infant who doesn't know the evil of this world has no immune system to fight the world’s sickness and dangers and therefore must be hidden and sheltered.

     This might all stem from the fact that I’m a woman and we are conditioned to believe that women are always overzealous or weak and feeble, nothing in between. I was taught that my emotions were always reason for reprimand, and that honesty and vulnerability were things that were to be used against me. These lessons came from two broken parents who I believe were trying their best to protect me, to keep me from the same pain and hurt they endured; that is how I see it now and it’s something I probably would have never understood without knowing their stories, or at least part of them. There were also many people who confirmed these teachings so they solidified even further.

     I think we’re all quick to blame “society” because we want to believe in love, and believe in the love of our parents even when it ends up hurting us, and I think love is not free from mistakes when it involves humans. Why would I think this? Because my love with God is not free from hurting Him, betraying Him and the completion of this love we share has been in grace and forgiveness, and as the self I have made dies I experience pain and I see the hurt I leave in my wake.

Seeing that never gets easier.

     As I keep others at arm’s length to protect myself, as I doubt every word and gesture given to me, as I plot ways to hide and put on a mask, as I distrust even God Himself with love and loving others, sharing and caring for them being known and telling them I want to know them… as all these things fight inside me… forgive me.

Forgive me for doubting God in you, as He is your creator, and you are His image.

Forgive me for loading the sins of the others onto you, and making it harder to love you.

Forgive me for assuming perfection in any way of your life and not loving you in your hurts, in every way I could be adding to them.

Forgive me for caring more about myself than a brother or sister who was made to be loved.

Forgive me for robbing chances for reconcile or growth through silence and selfishness or pride.

     In the end, every attempt at truth feels like a shameless plug, a desperate attempt at getting attention, a cry for help, or it is proof of my insanity, but aren't we all a little bit crazy if “insanity” is rooted in words meaning “not healthy,” we all need the great physician, and we’re all getting by as best we can, growing towards wholeness in God, and bringing His kingdom here on earth as it is in heaven.