The Invisible Obvious

So, it’s getting real, folks.

I had an idea.

It was a good idea.

Until I realized what it meant for me.

So I back-pedaled.

Oh yeah, it didn’t look like a backpedal, because the reasons were… uh… reasonable. (I don’t see it yet… I don’t want people to start looking to me for answers… I don’t think I can handle strangers in my home… I’m not sure how the logistics will work.) And on and on.

Any of those real? Maybe the one about having strangers in my house, but the others were excuses.

I guess the one about strangers in the house was an excuse, too.

What was the real reason?

I would have to show my true self. I would have to reveal my wounds, my addictions, my awful attitudes, and my dark mistakes. Maybe that’s too strong. I would (at the very least) have to be WILLING to share those things, without editing, and risk the painful response.

Yikes.

Interestingly enough, I’d been considering the idea of talking to a therapist about my experiences growing up in an abusive home. And not just at the surface, but down to the bottom of the pit. Carrying a 2-ton cauldron of sludge around for 40 years is exhausting and limiting, and unfaithful. But I suppose there comes a time in everyone’s life when they have to face the junk, eye to eye, and toe to toe. My time may be now.

Anyway, getting back to the idea. My boss, the pastor of our church, the same pastor who, along with the elders, has gone along with all the ideas I’ve pitched so far, was patient.

Until two weeks ago.

It was our regular weekly meeting where he gives me all the admin assignments for the week, and then we wax prolific in threads of philosophy, the parenting of adopted children who’ve been traumatized, and the ways that God keeps pushing us to move into the wilderness, following the pillar of fire.

Somehow by the end of that meeting, one where he had become uncharacteristically pushy, I had said yes to facilitating a small group of people through an experience of practicing spiritual disciplines. And I had also agreed to make the announcement on the following Sunday.

My mind immediately began whittling at the log of implications, trying to surface an analogy, a funny story, a word picture. That lasted for like ten seconds.

Obviously, I was not to prepare anything. I was to trust Him.

I remember only bits of what I said that Sunday. Eleven people made a commitment to the first multi-week session, exceeding our limit of five. We created a second group.

I had my first therapy session yesterday. She asked me to tell her about my family history, with timelines.

Today, I know one thing for sure. This is going to be hard.

My assignment for the next two weeks is to journal about how I look at myself… how I see myself… what I think about myself.

I don’t really like assignments like this. I spent almost forty years trying to forget. It didn’t work. When you’re young, you think that time will heal all wounds, so you go with the wait-it-out option. When you’re in your late sixties and the nightmares and waves of dread greet you almost every morning, you realize that the wounds have become a more deeply integrated part of your earthen vessel. That God wants more room for the presence of His heavenly treasure within.

Time to call upon those who help hoarders dig out from under the piles!

Here goes:

I am not lovable, except by God because of Who He is.

I am only worth something when I’m productive, solving problems, or rescuing others. Beyond that, I don’t matter.

However, I have a relentless sweetness at my core.

I have no animosity toward those who’ve hurt me.

One morning I asked Jesus why that is. He said, “It’s because you’ve absorbed the debt of their actions against you.”

I almost started to smile. And then He said, “But… you’re absorbing it for the wrong reason. It’s not because you aspire to be like Me. It’s because you believe you deserve it.”

It was suddenly so very obvious.

These are the beliefs of a little girl whose life became a matter of her utility at the age of four. And she’s been running with it ever since.

It’s time. I’m sick of hiding. I’m going in.