Metaphorical Physical Therapy

 Dear Kate,

You've suffered a number of blows one closely after another. Expecting recovery so soon is like getting back into the knockout ring with a broken rib, dislocated shoulder, a bleeding nose, and a half-working lung. Healing takes time. You aren't just healing from one event, or one thought, or one battle. You're healing from ----, ----, ----, ----, ----, ----, hating yourself, dealing with --- and breaches of trust and betrayal , all the while still healing from ---- and ----, and ----, and ----, and ----. It's like expecting your bloody nose to stop bleeding without putting pressure on it, or expecting that since your nose now stopped bleeding everything else is healed. That's just not how it works. You still have a broken rib, a half-working lung, a dislocated shoulder. And you still need to heal those things ONE at a time.

They aren't all going to heal at the same time nor at the same speed. So getting back into the ring and expecting not to fail, not to lose the fight, is a little foolish if you ask me. You hate yourself because you keep losing, you keep getting hurt, your gifts and talents are suppressed. You feel trapped on the inside, wanting to scream because you KNOW you can do better. You KNOW how strong you actually are, how gifted you actually are, how much impact you can actually make, but you can't seem to perform in the ring. You go a few good rounds but it always ends the same. 

You feeling broken not victorious.

So, my dearest friend, with all the love I have for you, please stop the fruitless effort of getting back into the ring right now. Please stop expecting all your bones and muscles to heal the same way and speed as your bloody nose. Please wait. Train someone else to go in the ring and throw the punches. 

So my practical advice in this season is sabbatical. Six months of metaphorical physical therapy. Rebuild the muscles, recover the strength, and restore those broken bones. YOU are NOT broken. But you HAVE broken bones. 

Love,

The Great Advocate (Holy Spirit)

 

Splintered Glass

 Journal entry about trust: 

"I am not Eve, thought my tendencies of her are strong. I am the daughter of the Redeemed human race, daughter of Mary. Daughter of Faith. Daughter of the Yes. Daughter of obedience. Mother of Trust. I do not need “to know.” I rebuke the snake and repel the temptation to want to know. Abba, Father, I am Yours. Redeem my broken heart and splintered glass of trust."

Splintered Trust

Like a pebble hitting glass,

The impact, not big enough

To shatter the whole

Window shield

But precise enough in position,

Size, and weight to hit its exact mark

Cracks the surface,

Sending ripples of splintered glass

Like a spider web of lies

Spreading across the center

Windshield

 

What is supposed to shield and protect,

Now distorted

My vision confused

 

Yes, he hit his mark

Once a friend, but it was only a mask

Now making me his enemy

Wanting to take me down with him

As he falls

 

He plants suspicion,

Deafening whispers

Behind closed doors

Hiding traps for me in dark corners

He attacks my character

Even as testimony after testimony

Is written against him

Court is knocking on his door

So he attempts to blow mine down

By persuading some of my own

To follow him

 

He laughs that he has

“access from within”

And taunts me with

Pointing out that I am

Running with those whom I can’t trust

His friend, my trusted Judas

 

And the splintered glass tempts me

To pull over and empty out my car.

If I can’t trust anyone,

I’ll do it alone.

But I look at those beside me,

And I don’t see Judas.

I see Jesus.

He is with me.

Emmanuel.

And He smiles at the ones

At my side

“I will deal with Judas,” He tells me

“Don’t stop the car.”

“Don’t look at the windshield, look beyond it.

Do you see? Do you see it, Kate?”

 

I look through the splintered glass

And see a waterfall ahead,

Dazzling rainbows and prisms of color

I have never seen before

The splintered glass no longer

A distortion of reality,

No longer a distraction,

But a vision of glory!

A gift I get to share

With all those

Sitting in the seats

He Came for Me

I always saw the Parable of the Good Samaritan through the lens of the good Samaritan, the good we should do for others. I never saw it through the eyes of the victim until now:

“A men fell victim to robbers as he went down from Jerusalem to Jericho. They stripped and beat him and went off leaving him half-dead.” (Luke 10:30)

My counselor earlier this year said to me, “This kind of betrayal is life-altering. Give yourself some time.” Especially for a painstakingly tender heart of mine. So many times I’ve mumbled in exasperation, God, you got the wrong girl. I am so not fit for this. Please, please pick someone stronger. My heart is weak, it’s too soft, it feels everything and feels for everyone. I forgive often because I understand, I feel what they battled with, where they came from, why they made the decisions they’ve made. I am deeply empathetic. Which makes it extremely difficult when I don’t receive the empathy or grace I often give. It makes it extremely difficult when people don’t understand me. I understand them, how can they not put themselves in my shoes and understand me?

And that’s the cry of the victim, too, right? To not just be seen, but understood. Trauma can isolate but the real issue is the validation beneath the surface. Sometimes we just need someone to want to carry the suffering with us. We feel understood, held, validated for our brokenness, and free to not pretend or not feel rushed to fix it. When someone understands and holds that moment with us, ah, it changes everything. Just like the Good Samaritan. The victim was left half-dead, and still the passerby’s “saw” but found reasons to not validate, not to understand, not to empathize, and therefore not to engage. They justified their own actions instead.

“A priest happened to be going down that road, but when he saw him, he passed by on the opposite side. Likewise, a Levite came to the place, and when he saw him, he passed by on the opposite side.” (vs 31-32)

Some people that I expected to understand, expected to stop at my cries for help, people who perhaps “should” be the ones to stop and help, instead pass me by and pass me off. “Oh, she’ll be fine,” they say. “She’s done it before, she’ll do it again.” “She signed up for this.” 

“It’s not the worst that could happen.” “We all go through it.” “Why is she complaining so much, she’s not dead.” “Well, I’m burned out like her, too.” And off they go.  I am seen but not validated. Acknowledged but not understood. Noticed but not enough to engage.

People who should care, who should know what to do, who should provide and comfort and plan – pass me by on the opposite side, in a hurry to the real mission site, in a hurry to deliver the real provisions they have, to give their support to the real service that is needed. I am just collateral damage, taking care of me will cost far more than their normal acts of service.

And yet, I lay there still, waiting, dying

Flies and gnats buzzing in anticipation of what flesh they can soon feast on

And suddenly, He comes for me

Half-dead (hope, trust, compassion crushed) and half-alive (only faint senses)

And carries me, my broken body, Limbs hanging, 

half-unconscious, bruised and bleeding

My Good Samaritan, God Himself coming to rescue me, to carry me to safety when no one else would

Jesus

He came for me.

 

“But a Samaritan traveler who came upon him was moved with compassion at the sight.

He approached the victim, poured oil and wine over his wounds and bandaged them. Then he lifted him up on his own animal, took him to an inn and cared for him. The next day he took two silver coins and gave them to the inn keeper with the instruction, “Take care of him. If you spend more than what I have given you, I shall repay you on my way back.” “Which of these three, in your opinion, was neighbor to the robbers’ victim?” The man answered Jesus, “The one who treated him with mercy.”  (Luke 10:33-37)

*As always with journals and emotions, especially anger which is often irrational, the feelings aren't necessarily the truth. For example, feeling abandoned doesn't mean I am. Sometimes victim mentality isolates us from the real truth, that there are many Good Samaritans, for example. And yet, emotions have a need to simply express themselves, like the Psalms, like Lamentations. So this series of blogs are insights into my own lamentations, and hopefully it encourages you to create space for yours. And meet Jesus along the way. 

The Problem with the Valley

To survive the valley, 

you have to be real comfortable in your own skin.

You’ll find many companions on the path to the mountaintop,

but very few will journey with you to the valley.

Those who do are unlikely to stay.

The closest companion you’re left with: you.

Your thoughts.

Your physical weakness.

Your limits.

Your sins.

Unmasked.

You become keenly aware of your scars, blemishes, incapabilities,

and if you’re not comfortable coming face to face with yourself,

you may not survive.

 

Self-hatred, self-loathing, self-condemnation

The valley is quiet; your thoughts, loud

The voice of the accuser in your own head, so close you can taste its poison.

 

In the mountaintops, your weaknesses don’t bother you

because you’re overwhelmed by the beauty surrounding you,

    the view from the top – breathtaking

    this moment – significant

    you – small

 

In the cities, your weakness don’t bother you because they are drown out by the noise

Or sometimes even the suffering of others

    Opportunities – everywhere

    This moment – insignificant

    You – the center

 

But in the valley?

Your weaknesses are on full display, weighing you down

Stuck in the marsh by your limits

Lost in the forest – your thoughts – going in circles

No noise, no distraction, no beauty

Just you and your ashes

 

To survive the valley

Is to have the fortitude to love yourself

Exposed, bare, raw, dirty

The Garden of Eden deep in the valley

The place to face your Maker as you are

Without even a fig leaf

To admit you took a bit of the poisoned apple

And to discover that the serpent’s lies

Are more about you

Than they are about Him.

Where Does It Hurt?

I met a woman today with heartbreak blue eyes

She captivated me despite the sadness I felt in her presence

 

I stared, holding her eyes, holding her pain

As if she knew I felt her sadness too and wanted to explain why,

she asked me, “If you had a daughter and she ran away on your birthday,

where would it hurt?”

I touched my heart.

 

“If your own daughter turned on you, deceived into believing she had to earn satan’s favor by cursing you and planning harm for you, where would it hurt?”

I arched my back, as if feeling the arrow between the shoulder blades.

 

“If your daughter was raped and you were called to the crime scene,

And you held a body that was alive but dead inside, eyes of a robot, a heart you love, murdered

And you, holding her – skin hot to the touch but heart cold as ice – helpless,

Where would it hurt?”

I touched my stomach as if I might vomit.

 

“If you had a daughter who believed the lies spoken about you by the betrayal of a friend, and she betrayed you, too, where would it hurt in your body?”

I felt my forehead, skin getting hot like a fever.

 

“If you had another daughter who ran away in the dark cover of night, and you waited for her, but she did not return, where would it hurt in your body?”

My lungs constricted and my shoulders drooped with invisible weight.

 

“If some of your children were out on the street, even by their own choices of running away and refusing to come home, would you be able to eat without thinking of them?

Sleep without wondering if they are safe?

Look at family photos and not feel your stomach sink?

Ask God why over and over again?

If your own children rejected you like this, where would it hurt in your body?”

Everywhere. I ached everywhere.

 

And suddenly, I understood her pain, fully, wholly, and I ached for the woman I saw behind the heartbreak eyes, a light that seemed smothered, tattered, losing hope

I reached to touch her

But my fingers touched glass

and I wept for her

The woman in the mirror

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Lord, it hurts all over. My lungs hurt. My heart hurts. My shoulders hurt. My upper arms hurt. My head hurts. My knees hurt. My stomach hurts.

 

Daughter,

My Hands hurt

My Feet hurt

My Side hurts

My Head hurts

My Back hurts

My Wrists hurt

 

But nothing hurts more than the love that’s in my Sacred Heart for you. By My wounds, yours are healed.