“You are perfect,” they said.
A group of high school girls say this looking at me and perceiving this to be who I am, but little do they know I am just a girl who wears waterproof mascara to hide from the world that I have been crying. Because the waterproof hides the tears that would show I am not bulletproof.
One day I decided to lace up my boots, put on a vest, and go out into the battlefield of life preaching the message, “with Jesus nothing will ever hurt me.” When in reality, under the vest there are some gunshot wounds that might not have killed me, but they still hurt.
I think life with Jesus is a lot like wearing a bulletproof vest.
The pain does not kill you, but it doesn’t mean it doesn’t hurt
It hurts.
I have for so long not been willing to just take off the vest and let people see that the pain that happened so many years ago is still a reoccurring event. It can resurface when it wants. It can stop me in a moment and grab me like a thief. It can roll in one morning and hit me all over again and I see that “time” healing things is nothing but a lie.
But I have to be bulletproof. The world needs me to be bulletproof.
But I am not.
You are not.
And neither of us have to be.
The sooner I let this façade be completely torn is the sooner that I can begin. Begin letting my deepest pain be my greatest ministry. The moment we pull out the megaphone and announce to the world that we know all about this monster called pain is the moment people will start pulling up chairs to sit down and listen to what we have to say.
My Dad died. It is not the white elephant in the room or the awkward part of the conversation with new friends. People know my story. I am open about it. But over the years I have lost the art of storytelling. Somewhere along the way I changed the plot a little. I started dwindling out more and more of the “this sucked” and “this hurt” and replacing it with “God is good.” Which is true, God is good, but I see more now than ever people need to hear the “this sucks” and the “this hurts.” We do not have to change the plot. We do not have to replace the darkest moments of our lives with a lot of cliché church/Christian talk. The darkest moments are the greatest place for the light to shine. Talk about the dark moments.
The moments when you wonder what you are supposed to do with all things you wish you could say. The moments when driving home consistently turned into screaming into the night because it hurt so bad. The moments when you were paralyzed thinking about the “what ifs.” The moments when you stumbled across a picture that made it hard to breathe. The moments when the morning was your biggest fear because you knew what you were waking up to. The moments when you wished away certain events because thought of the absence is too much to bear. The moments when you realized the sounds of their voice is slipping away from even being a memory. The moments when you just didn’t t know what to do. The moments when reading scripture felt like trying to translate a foreign language because you just cannot understand how a good God could put you where you are.
Those moments. Those are the moments that burned and I decided I would just extinguish them all. Even to the point of tricking myself to thinking that they did not ever happen. But it has caused me to extinguish a fire that could serve as a signal for someone freshly walking into the dark. A signal that says, “I understand.” A signal that says, “I’ve been there and you are going to make it.” We all have the potential to be the brightest light for someone in their darkest moments, but not if we evacuate those moments and are never willing to go back.
Going back is hard. Trust me, even now I am fighting taking the the slightest baby step back. Everything in me is telling me to not do it, but this I know: when I go back this time I won’t be walking out alone. I am bringing someone with me. Because someone needs me to go back. Someone needs you to go back.
David tells us in Psalm 73:21-24
“When my heart was grieved
and my spirit embittered (irritated),
I was senseless and ignorant;
I was a brute beast before you.
Yet I am always with you;
you hold me by my right hand.
You guide me with your counsel,
and afterward you will take me into glory.”
You can be grieved.
You can be irritated.
You can be a beast before Him.
You can be brutally honest.
You can be being choked and suffocated by grief.
You can be mad as hell at God.
Yet, He is still there, holding you by your hand, leading you.
I think David tells us this as a way of saying, “you have permission.” But also to say, “you are not going to stay there.” The key word of that verse: afterward.
You move forward, into glory.
I have no doubt that the Lord has let me experience the “afterward” over the last thirteen years since losing my dad. But I think I need to stop and remember what the before was like too. I have run for a long time away from those dark moments. I think it is time that I untie the shoe strings for a little while and stop running. I think it is time to stop being Martha and just be Mary, sitting at His feet. Asking Him to give me the courage to go back. Asking for Him to blow the dust off some things and let me see what is all there. Ask Him because there are a lot of hurting people in the world that might never show up if someone doesn’t say they know about this thing called pain. I want people to show up, because if they show up I can ultimately tell them the same thing David told us… the afterward comes. He is still there.
I was talking to a friend last night about a women’s conference I am speaking at in November and he said, “there is a lot there Adria.” I didn’t really say anything in response but nodded like I agreed, when I was already doubting what he was saying. I told him I could remember everything that happened the day my dad died but the days after were such a blur but that I knew people needed to hear about those days. Driving home last night I prayed the the simplest little prayer: God bring it all back. I want it.
It terrifies me but the thought of someone not seeing Jesus just because I am unwilling terrifies me even more.
I think that is the place we have to get to. The place where pain doesn’t serve as the narrator of the story any more, telling us where we will go or not go, but instead is just a character. The place where you see that your wounds could be the healing ointment for someone else. The place where you are willing to go back just so that someone else can see that they are going to experience that “afterward.”
Pain, yeah its real. But healing, healing is real too.
The biggest part of going back is just being honest. Do not be afraid to say things you have so longed not dare to mumble. Honesty is attractive.
Friends, there is a lot there. A lot that you have to offer the world. It might take some work to uncover but I believe it is going to be worth it. Don’t think I am miles ahead of you on this one, I am not. I am just taking step one. But step one is the most important step.
Write the hard post.
Talk about the painful things.
Dig deeper.
Let your heart be wide open.
Be honest.
Take off the bulletproof vest.
I am taking off mine.
