bent

she said, “do you hear that? it sounds so sinister to me! what an accuser!!”

 i hadn’t noticed.

she pointed out that i have been moving toward - stepping into - my purpose. that I had heard affirmation, words of life directed at my identity, at my desire to bring healing, felt that spark of “yes! this is it! what i’m made for!” and, within two days, the very same places were attacked, twisted.

my value, beauty, worth all called into question by an enemy of my soul’s life.

bending almost certainly innocent words into strangleholds.

i had told her, with a sigh, a few weeks ago, “i wish everyone had a jolie*…” someone who speaks life-giving truth into hearts that need it. someone who can walk alongside, witness the heart of another, engage spiritually with them, and – in a way – love them, be jesus to them. her response was, “maybe they need an ailey.” wait – that’s my name.** like, i could actually be that type of a presence with people?! heart-racing excitement and terror came with that thought. that maybe, just maybe, i could offer the same Life that i have found.

obviously, you might be thinking.

but i'm thinking: i’ve tried that before. been vulnerable, opened my heart, spoken truth… and been held at arm’s length, rejected by crumbling brick walls they think will protect. and i’ve believed that the reason for that was my inadequacy. my inability to stand in the face of rejection, in the face of spiritual pressure. i’ve seen myself cave, give in to the warfare. let it take me.

not this time. not now that i know.

because, far from scaring me into inaction, when i realize the dark forces at play, it ignites something in me. i find a fight in me i didn’t know i had. i discover this part of my heart that refuses to allow the ultimate liar-thief-destroyer to have his way in the hearts of people i love, people i see.  myself.

so when my 3-year-old tells me i used to be pretty, and the enemy turns it into an attack on my worth, a foothold for lies about motherhood-failure and beauty-lack and all the other inadequacy-talk… i will stand. on my own two beautifully purposed feet. and breathe in oxygenating presence, and breathe out healing truth. truth of my worth and yours, our beauty, our love and lovability, our purpose.

like c.s. lewis' lucy with her dagger and cordial, tending the wounded... as a healer-warrioress i will join the battle. Stand with me?

*names changed to protect, well… me. This is an anonymous blog, ok? (baby steps.)

**no. it’s not. It’s a pseudonym.

a blessing

by all means, go deep. embrace all those true and vulnerable places.

see the ways that what was beautiful

became broken

scarred, limping

agree that what was done was wrong,

and forgive anyway,

because then you become

so free

and your love unstoppable.

by all means, dive down into the darkness

take your courage with you

because only then

can you defeat the old enemies

that lurk, waiting to bind you up again

in the fear

and the shame

and all the lies 

you have no business believing 

when the truth lives in you.

by all means, go deep,

but hear this:

don't forget to play.

because when you are a child

in all the most real senses

you are free and alive

and suddenly

people are joining you in your freedom

and discovering a God

who doesn't want their perfect performances

doing all the "should"s, all the right ways.

they, together with you,

explore, and discover

that this God

loves to play

right there with them.

because it means you're together

and engaged

and delighting in love and beauty and presence

together.

together.

together.

when your calling is a faint orange glow

laughter in the dark

vital abandon

voice being drawn out

aware of her windy reality.

(found poetry in my art journal)

***

A faint orange glows through the fog and gives me hope.

My life chaotic at best; at worst, a failure.

I dream big dreams of light cast into dark. Of artist-birthed life making its way into a hurting world. Of hearts healed. Of beauty and spirit-wind wrapped holy together, bringing truth that frees instead of binds.

And then I live.

Isolated, unfree myself. Wrapped wholly with the whims of beloveds and their bedlam. Unseen, unheard because I do not speak. I long to bring life, bravery. I live fearful, greedy for solitude, shamebound.

They say the area of your struggle is inseparably woven with your calling.

If I was having coffee with you and these words poured out of you, I would be so drawn to offer grace, rest. To make sure you knew you don’t have to meet anybody’s expectations (yours included). That, yes, you have this amazing calling to offer light and life and beauty and freedom and healing. But the failing is the lie.

All the trying, beating up the beauty because it’s not quite beautiful enough.

The fighting with life instead of living it.

And most of all, I’d want you to know he’s right there.

In the afternoons with a three-year-old anarchist whose heart you desperately want to guard in ways yours never was.

In the hundreds of minutes you feed and lullaby your baby, hoping for a soul that knows it’s worth rescuing.

In the confusion of intimacy.

In the tension between beauty-longings and real-life mess.

Even when you haven’t given him the time you “should”. There is no condemning coming from his heart, so if you’re sensing damnation-emotion, you gotta fight, albeit an unseen enemy.  One that pretends he’s not there so you think it’s your own voice, or even that of the life-way-truth. It’s not. He may even sound like people you love. He likes to put flesh-and-blood to his lies like that. But no matter what, it’s not true.

You are enough.

Your heart is worth fighting for, just like those little boys’.

And those women you dream freedom for.

He bled to rescue your heart, so you simply can’t give it back over to the liar. To the hater of your aliveness.

it might look like the easy way out – to wallow, to believe in your worthlessness. Because then it doesn’t matter so much that your days don’t look like your dreams. But think of the alive-in-your-purpose days. Isn’t even that handful worth the fight?

Well, isn’t it?

And I am surprised to hear my own heart answering yes. Oh, yes.