I was supposed to write for 31 days in October at my other blog*. I made 24 days. My focus was reflecting on selections from Vincent’s A Gospel Primer. 24 reflections, not 31.
Sometimes I feel like I’m enveloped in a mist where nothing is quite clear and where it’s almost impossible to find my way.
The flashbacks and subsequent aftereffects have been hard the past week.
My life seems full of change and transitions all of a sudden.
And my deadline looms.
So I stopped when completing the project seemed overwhelming in those moments, and I’m disappointed in myself for doing so. As difficult as the reflections were, they also helped clarify some things for me.
Then Monday I read something on a blog that made me catch my breath and see some hope:
“He wants to reach down into the dark, deep ‘fatherly’ wounds in your heart.”
- Because I know how much I resist the idea of God as my Father.
- Because I know how difficult it is to forgive.
- Because I’m beginning to realize just how wounded my heart is.
I told someone this afternoon that I was stupid back then when I was little because I always wanted to believe it was true…that my dad loved me and just wanted to spend time with me…and ended up being betrayed and hurt every time. Not one time, but over and over. Stupid. He used the word gullible (because he tries very hard to steer me away from the word stupid).
In my rational, logical mind, I realize there’s no comparison between the two. In the dark of the night when the flashbacks and feelings threaten to choke me I doubt.
I push Him away.
My friend said that He’s holding me anyway, and has been, and that if I would just stop fighting and wriggling I would find rest.
I don’t know how to stop.
I wish it were as easy as it sounds.
There are moments of success…dark moments when using His word and rehearsing His gospel that He walks me through them without anything bad happening…moments when His words are louder in my head than my dad’s words.
But there are many more moments of failure…moments when I feel as though I’m suffocating with the weight of everything…moments when my dad’s voice screams “dirty, worthless, bad” relentlessly.
It’s risky to talk about these things. It wasn’t allowed “or else” for all those years. Worse, rejection could (and has) happened. It’s risky as well because in the dark of tonight there will be a battle over whether it was okay to talk or not.
But God already knows everything he did and how much it hurt and continues to hurt, and doesn’t seem to have thrown me out yet. I have to wonder though if He isn’t tired of me struggling and doubting and failing.
*email if you’re interested