a broken vessel...

Yesterday I was trying to explain a situation to my counselor (who I lovingly refer to as Denise - that’s her name) and at the end of my rant the words, “IS THAT WRONG?” came out of my mouth with vengeance. She looked at me and said, “No. But I think you might really struggle with intimacy should you ever choose to pursue a relationship that REALLY requires that.” 

Hmmmmm. 

I am willing to be vulnerable and exposed, transparent, gutted. I am a deep person and often let people come too close too fast. But I think she is right. I struggle with intimacy when I don’t get to CHOOSE to walk away, and put up the walls, and create the space. I want to control the intimacy - physically - and emotionally. I want to decide I’m done, when I need a moment to breathe. I want to close the door and shut out everything and everyone. 

Long story short, chronic pain has ruined me and though I attempt to handle it well, as simultaneously it is crushing me - I am looking at it once again and seeing the profound impact it has had. I have learned a lot about expressing my needs, about letting people see me in the midst of my pain and not shying away from that. BUT if I am really honest, as pain overwhelms and exhaustion sets in - even if I have sent a text or two alerting my people that it is bad - I don’t want you there. I might think I do, I might even SAY I do, but I don’t. I want to shut down and close you out. I want only the darkness. I want only alone because I’m afraid I’ll crumble and I don’t really want you to see that. I want curled up under the covers in a little ball, invisible. Hidden. 

When contemplating Africa, I was afraid. I was afraid of not being capable because of my head. I told my team about it before leaving…and then I went… I lead…with hope and a tiny hint of courage. The Lord is faithful and provides strength in the midst of the hardest moments, but I did have a really bad day (we refer to it as “the grey dress day”) and I did kind of fall apart. It was Friday, the day that camp ended, and I had so much responsibility. It was the day I got to share my story and close camp with a bold challenge and pray a blessing over all the children, and then say goodbye. I remember waking up (kinda funny, I think I slept for an hour) thinking it was going to be a torturous day and I was right. As we pulled away from camp after tearfully hugging the campers who had become so dear to our hearts for the last time, I could barely stand, the pain threatened to literally take me down. As I sat in the Jeep driving away from camp and through the village of Bugasera tears poured - partially emotional - and undoubtedly physical - pain was undeniable and intense - the kind that just takes over and claims you as a victim. I had a view of the Jeep ahead (when my eyes were open) and caught glimpses of my teammate watching, empathy and compassion written on her face. She knew. She cared. I had met her for coffee and told her my story before we left on this grand adventure. Throughout training, God made it abundantly clear that He had a special place in my heart for her - she actually reminds me of me. She is FULL of His light and overflows with joy and enthusiasm - but she also has a story full of pain. It is one she will have to continue to seek Him in the midst of and fight to grow through - it will be hard, but oh how she will SHINE HIS GLORY if she allows Him to be her strength. When we got back to the guesthouse she ran to me. She offered me water and meds and carved out a space for me to be alone for a minute, to gather myself before entering the chaos of the team and translators and another goodbye. She made it ok to not be ok - she entered graciously into the pain because she’s been there. I felt myself fighting her, wanting to push her away and be strong enough to not need her, but also overwhelmed by the kindness and generosity of her presence. I softened. I took the moment she gave. Then we turned and went together into our Rwanda home. After getting through a few more events, it was officially time to be “done” and I could settle in for the night. As much as I wanted to say “will you stay” every part of me curled up in the ball and shut the door to my room - nothing left - no space for another person. Distance my only protection from complete annihilation. 

Denise says it is my defense mechanism and my method of strength in the midst of what threatens to be too much - a carefully devised weapon - built over time - engaged strategically when needed. But the armor of God is our weapon for battle. He is our strength in weakness. He is the gold that pours through the cracks and fills our broken exteriors. I want to be that kind of display of His love. 

So…I guess once again, it’s time to grow…to let people in…to break down more walls. So I’m starting here - with being honest - with admitting I want to slam the door and shut down and go silent. Because it hurts and it’s hard and I feel alone even as I try to let you in. You can’t understand and I don’t feel your nearness and not telling you makes it easier to fight. But I want to have real intimacy in my life - and I want to to be a display for His glory, a broken vessel, choosing hope, loving louder and giving more.