in which i am weak on purpose

i have been trying to be "strong" for a very long time.

years ago, when i was too young to know what the price would be, i made the first decision to harden my heart. growing up in an unsafe home, it was too painful to be soft and too humiliating to be vulnerable. the only way i could exercise any control over what i was going through, was to go numb. if i didn't want to hurt, i just had to not care. i still wouldn't be free, but at least i wouldn't be in pain. more importantly, i wouldn't be giving my abusers the satisfaction of seeing me break.

if you use your words as a weapon, then as a weapon, i'll shed no tears. | birdy

so, i lied. i betrayed my truth, smothering it in self-denial. it worked, to some degree. i wouldn't say i felt a sense of relief, because the assaults on my body and soul had not stopped. but contempt -- as addictive as morphine -- gave me a sense of control over my circumstances. it allowed me to dissociate from my environment and watch my life pass by from the perspective of a bystander. like taking tylenol for a brain tumor, it didn't fix any of the root causes for my pain. it just gave me enough respite to survive.

years passed, and that hardening became a normal part of life. sometimes, during an occasional period when my life was not so dark, i could put it off for a little while. but eventually, the "grace periods" always came to an end. the sun would set; the darkness would settle in again. and that old, familiar numbness would beckon. it would whisper tantalizingly in my ear, promising a sufficient dose of anesthesia in exchange for blasphemous self-deception:

"it doesn't hurt. you're fine. it doesn't hurt. this is normal. this is okay. it doesn't hurt."

perhaps the most destructive aspect of it all was that, as i was slowly adding layers to the walls around my heart, that became my definition of strength: hardness. coldness. numbness. i was such a good fortress-builder -- no one could get in. i was so proud of the fact that no one's words could hurt me. i even dressed it up in righteousness and boasted about how "my worth was in Christ." in reality, i was trudging through brokenness in denial. i was a walking shell -- like a car on the road without anyone behind the wheel. i went through the motions, laughing at peoples' jokes and giving what i felt were the appropriate reactions to their social cues, but there was no passion behind it. the truth is, i didn't have the ability to relate to anyone, because that would require feeling.

then one day, after i was grown up and no longer living with my abusers, something happened: i lost a beloved family member. i remember it struck me as odd that i didn't feel more sad. i chalked it up to shock, and went about my life. weeks passed, then months. before i knew it, the one-year anniversary of their death had come and gone. i realized i still had not cried over them. i felt guilty; i had cried about other, comparatively trivial things, so why couldn't i shed tears for this person i had loved and lost?

dear reader, years of self-denial come at a devastating price. but, there is a place where grace abounds.

slowly, gently, God worked on me. i won't say He "got hold of me," because if He hadn't already been holding me through every day of my life, i wouldn't be here today. but His voice rose over the sound of the white noise i had cranked up in my head for twenty years. He brought people into my life - people with depth & empathy & wisdom - who made me want to feel again. people who wouldn't let me get away with faking it, because they brought with them a kind of raw authenticity that shines forth like the dawn. it was illuminating, in the way that a light turned on makes a room full of roaches scatter. it forced me to go to the mat with my pain.

through those people, God brought me to my breaking point, and once i was there - desperate to feel again, crying out to Him to shake me out of my stupor because i just couldn't take the nothingness anymore - He started removing bricks.

"here's another one. yes, this one has to go now, too. i know it's heavy... here, let me help you."

one by one, they all had to come down. they seemed so much heavier than when i'd first stacked them up. there were days when my shoulders ached and my fingers bled from the work of dismantling my fortress, yet my reward was more than worth the effort.

i was alive for the first time in years. my spiritual nerve endings were revived. i felt deep, aching grief, scorching anger, electrifying passion. to be an active participant in my life rather than just an observer was exhilarating, terrifying, and at times, a bit overwhelming. i won't lie - more than once, i begged God to take away my emotions and give me back my anesthesia. but i heard Him telling me that if I wanted my life, i had to lose it. if i wanted to be more than just a shell, i had to make the conscious decision to open my heart and be vulnerable again.

i made my choice; i stepped out in faith. and in the many moments of pain and weakness that followed, He was there. He held on to me as i was tossed about in the waves. though He could have spoken one word and calmed the storm in an instant, i believe He allowed it to rage in order to deepen my faith. after all, it's only in the situations where the odds are ten to one, and we are out of our depth, that He is truly glorified. like Gideon, He wanted me to cull my army; He required me to be vulnerable, so that no one but Him could take the credit for saving me. today, there is no room for doubt in my mind about Who my Savior is. how else could i have survived such a hurricane?

if i must boast, i will boast of the things that show my weakness. | 2 Corinthians 11:30

if there is one thing that the first quarter of my life has taught me, it's this: pain is a shovel, violently thrusting its sharp steel into soft soil over and over again until it is irreversibly changed. it shatters the surface of things to create depth. without the ability to feel it, we lose the ability to grow, and when something stops growing, it dies. weakness (authenticity, transparency) leaves us wide open to the possibility of pain. but that's okay, because i am convinced that it is absolutely vital to the cultivation of a living soul.

so i now make the choice to be weak -- arms out, chest exposed. the heart that i once resented and stifled beats wildly and unmistakably in my chest. i open myself up to the possibility of being struck down, because i want to feel it all: every heartbeat, every breath, every laugh, every sob, every sting. they're all a testament to God's painful, perfect process of redemption, and to the fact that He's brought me back from the dead.

i will live out this truth every single day for the rest of my life.
and i will never, ever lie to myself again.