That though the wrong seems oft so strong, God is the Ruler yet.
[Following the Friday of pink carnations came the Saturday of self-pampering and energising activities. Saturday evening found me mired in temptation but able to resist, largely with the help of a timely distraction.]
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And then there was Sunday. The sermon I had the overflowing joy and privilege to sit under seemed like it was tailor-made for me and my aching heart that morning. It got me. It completely got me. I sat entranced. The Lord is just amazing. He cares enough to speak to us!
It was beautiful and it was balm but it was also too much for one Sunday while everything is just so raw. At times like these, I emphatically thank God for the technology I have access to because it means I can carry the sermon around in my pocket and re-listen as needed. In fact, so can you!
After the service finished, the preacher found me sitting in my office (very possibly staring blankly) and asked how I was. Despite recent small(er-ish) victories, despite how upbeat I had been for most of that morning, my honest answer was, "I think it's going to be a hard day." My friend looked slightly surprised and maybe like a little wind had been knocked out of him. He appeared to have been rooting for me and hoping that Sunday would be a real Sabbath from all my heaviness. I felt a little badly saying it, wishing I could be better. (I also had a moment of profound gratitude that I have friends with whom I can be perfectly honest.)
He invited me to make sure I took very good care of myself that day, now the second day in a row. He made it inescapably clear that there should be no obstacle for it. I needed to prioritise my well-being, and at that time, I was able to accept the invitation because it felt like a favor to him. Friend whom I respect and cherish asking me to do something that would make them happy? No-brainer yes. That the "something" happens to be taking care of myself--something I shouldn't need second-party motivation for? Awkward, but I can work with it.
Sunday blended into Monday and somewhere in that first-of-the-work-week day I accepted my friend's suggestion to designate Friday for having a big talk (THE big talk) about all of what's been bubbling up inside of me. I wanted catharsis. I wanted to say it all plainly and I desperately wanted to see its true ugliness. (And I wanted him to concur.) "This is what happened to me..." I would say. I would sit still, curled up in a ball, avoiding eye-contact, speaking very quietly, and work through my list, fighting back the urge to punctuate each story with, "it wasn't that bad, though."
Monday evening found me sending one of the saddest text-messages I've ever drafted:
"I'm standing in the street a block from my house ready to cry. I can't go home."
I was reaching out, asking for permission to spend the money required for me to not go home. I couldn't go home and be by myself and be unable to resist succumbing to my disgusting coping mechanism.
On my way back downtown, the phantom hands grew highly aggressive and I felt heavily pressed by the weight of helplessness and anger. For the first time ever, I cried over my history of abuse. I finally saw it in the proper lighting and had enough of my defenses eroded that I could simply be sad and feel the appropriate hurt.
Crying on the bus was a new one for me but I was still able to feel relief and gratitude for a real emotion. I was glad to be having an appropriate response for once. (I should be devastated!)
I stayed out of the house as long as I could and hoped I was going to be dog-tired enough when I got home that I would be asleep before temptation could reach me. I was wrong. I thought I had it. I was feeling OK, feeling grateful that I had time to read the Word, journal, and pray, feeling like Monday could be put in the books and that I would do my best to tackle Tuesday when it came. But then when I closed my eyes, it was like a mob was shouting at me, DO IT! DO IT! DO IT! They were practically frothing with blood-lust.
I would open my eyes and gasp each time, horribly intimidated and ready to give up. It felt like I was going to be swallowed whole. I felt like I was being dragged away.
I just wasn't going to beat this. I had to give in. What was the point anyway? This pain is unbearable.
Then I sent another text-message that would rank among the saddest, reaching out to be talked off the ledge. I didn't think it would help but I didn't want the mob to be satisfied. I was met with a lot more grace and a lot more love than I will ever deserve.
I was permitted to keep my autonomy but I was immediately and deeply aware that boxes of cereal don't get talked off ledges. People don't plead with shoelaces to take better care of themselves. Maybe I was worth being intervened for.
This is my Father's world: The battle is not done;
Jesus who died shall be satisfied, And earth and heav'n be one.
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