I think it starts with someone getting up there on a Sunday morning and acknowledging their brokenness, I said to him as we sat at a table at a local McDonald’s. We were sharing our brokenness with each other: him, the brokenness of his family; me, the brokenness of myself. We can’t fully and truly embrace each other until we know each other’s brokenness.
. . .
I’ve extended the olive branch many times, and it always ends the same way, he said. They’re angry at me.
They’re not angry at you. They’re angry at the trauma, at the world, and they take their anger out on you because you’re a safe person. I do it all the time. I did it just last night to one of my safe people. I twisted his words and threw them back in his face, not because I was angry at him, but because I was angry—am angry—at myself, at the world, at God. Sometimes I wish secretly that he would just hate me because then it would validate the way I feel about myself, which I know is irrational and illogical because he chose to walk this journey with me.
. . .
Insanity is doing the same thing over and over again expecting different results. But isn’t that also sanity? Doing the same thing over and over again hoping that some good will come from it? I get up every morning hoping that the day will be better than the one before, that I’ll be able to handle whatever life throws my way better than I did the day before. Is that insanity? Or does that make me sane? Does my choice to live each day, to take each day as it comes, even if the day before was rough, even if I know this one also has a chance to be rough, make me insane?
. . .
It shouldn’t be like this. I shouldn’t be sitting at work and feel the need to press a knife to my wrist. Feeling nothing was easier because I could make myself feel by self-harming. Feeling everything is harder because it happens all of a sudden, without warning. 0 to 100 in the blink of an eye. It’s going to get harder before it gets better because until I allow myself to feel all the emotions I suppressed for years, my emotions won’t regulate themselves.
. . .
God found me at the altar. He was there waiting for me in the messy place. He met those guys in the fiery furnace and didn’t walk out with them. He was there waiting for them—in the mess, in the fire. He waits for us in the messy place, over and over and over again. Does that make God insane?
I ran away from God, turned my back on God, got angry at God; and still, He waited for me in the messiness, in the brokenness, in the darkness, in the fire.
Life is messy; healing is messy, but God gets down and dirty with us. I don’t know why He does what He does; why I am the way I am; why I’ve been through what I’ve been through; why there’s all this hurt in the world. But this I do know: God has shone the brightest in me in the midst of my pain and hurt. I’ve met people I wouldn’t have met, have grown stronger than I ever would have. I’ve been on my knees crying, and I’ve found my way back to the cross, back to where He was waiting for me all along.