A Love Poured Out.... for me.

 I haven't been writing because I'm scared of what I'll say. There is no taste more sour than the words of someone who has let grief and pain make them bitter and I, for one, would never write another word if I thought that was who I was becoming. It is hard to be your own judge. We are our own harshest critic. If what I thought of myself was true I would kill myself off to spare the rest of the world from my existence. I'm not being dramatic to make a point, I am serious. I've been so silent and so afraid that I'm not grieving well or in a healthy way. I haven't been able to put words to what I go through. At least not accurate ones. Talking to God is hard because I have nothing to say to Him. My soul feels so naked and exposed and raw and torn and bleeding. I feel like the wounded man on the side of the road, and all the upstanding, God-fearing people go rushing past. I don't say this to shame anyone or make anyone feel bad. I speak of generalities, not specifics. I just expect God to pass me by as well. Why would he stop for me? World War III is brewing as I type. People everywhere are calling on His name, and I'm too weak to whisper it so why would he pay me the slightest attention? Worse, I hurl blame and insults and accusations at Him on a regular basis. My bleeding heart is not worth his time. My pain is bleeding me dry but there are wounds much worse than mine that need to be attended to. I stayed in bed all day and did nothing. I shut up my brain and mindlessly scrolled. 

Out of all the attributes of God, His love is the one I still don't understand. My whole life it has been a mystery too great for me. I don't believe that I am unconditionally loved by him. You may start throwing darts, I've got callouses. I've heard it all before. As a very little girl, I remember realizing that love is conditional. And if I don't earn it, I'm not worthy of it. Acts of service became my mantra. My number one love language. If I failed or hurt someone I made myself do penance. It wasn't until one of my dearest friends said something that absolutely shattered me that I began to see unconditional love. She said, "I hope you know that even though you bring the whole entire spread to the table,
if you don't bring anything you are just as treasured. You don't have to be all the bells and whistles. You might think that's why you're loved but it's not. Just you in a burlap sack is just as cherishable." The concept that I didn't have to bring the spread to the table to be welcomed in and loved was something I didn't know was possible. And yet there she was, living, breathing, tangible proof that this kind of love exists. Because she stuck with me through the worst of the storm. When I was bare and dried up and had nothing to offer, she came and sat with me and held my hand, and said I am SO loved. That was when I began to realize this is the love that Jesus pours over me every minute of every day. It's that same love that holds me as sobs shake my body and I collapse into a heap on the floor. It's that love that, while I was still a wretched sinner, Christ died for me. It's that love that chooses me. Anoints me. Covers me. Heals me from the inside out. That love that crashes over barriers and shatters partitions and makes you feel things you didn't know you could feel. 

It was the reality of that kind of love that reduced me to a sobbing, shaking, heartbroken puddle of humanity tonight. I hadn't prayed or read my Bible all week. I was throwing accusations and insults at the Lord like pebbles. I was choosing to walk away and close up my heart because the pain was too much and the questions too hard and I felt too much rejection and loss and anguish to do anything but lay down and beg to die. 

Then I felt strong arms lift me. Strong and steady. They held me so close. Confused I looked up into the sky and saw the face of my Lord. 

"Put me down I haven't done anything for you today. Or yesterday." 

"I love you."

"You can't love me...?!" 

I began to struggle and punch and begged to get back down on the ground where I belonged. 

 "I haven't done anything to deserve it. I've done quite the opposite. Please put me down. I'm in too much pain. I don't want to open up. Not to you."

"You have no idea how much I love you." 

I tried so many things. He refused to put me down. He gazed down at me with a face full of the deepest love I have ever seen. It broke me. I wept until I couldn't breathe. And yet with each gasp for air, and with each tear that fell into my lap, I began to feel more and more healed. I don't think it's a coincidence that tears are shaped like seeds. Because my tears are falling to the hands of someone that has loved me wildly since the day he knit me together in my mother's womb. They are falling onto the scars of someone who has a long history of finding and restoring the most lost things. 

So if you see me around with tears in my eyes don't be alarmed. This girl has finally known what it is to be loved with that perfect love that casts out fear. She's finally come face to face with the reality of a love that says she is just as worthy if she comes creeping in the back door, with her face covered, and weeps at the feet of Jesus as the one who brings gifts and spreads and talents and silver. And as she gains the courage to look into the eyes of the One who gives such a love, she knows that with healing and deeper grace than she can understand, she too will have a chance to bring all that she has to offer to the table. A feast for the beloved. A table prepared. Love poured out. Loaves of mercy. It's all there. Come, won't you come?