Broken. Shattered in a million little pieces. That’s how my heart feels today. This Lent hasn’t been pretty. It’s been horrifying, really. The white-washed masks I hide behind revealed as the decaying death they truly are. For weeks I was active in this, asking God to do this work. For weeks we labored together so he could say the truth and I could hear the truth and the truth could set me free.
And then, then there were circumstances that pushed me to the utter brink. A son sick. Passing the illness to the baby. The baby, breathing fast and shallow, heart racing, eyes closing. And even a novice mother of two knew that there wasn’t much oxygen getting in there. By the time a nurse-neighbor said it was time for Urgent Care, my mama’s heart said it was time for the ER so we left and I prayed, urging him to stay awake just so I could be sure. The registration desk didn’t even ask for a paper to be signed; triage took us back immediately, past the waiting room of those without a baby gasping for breath. We began the slow recovery in the days that followed. But no sooner had we started than another dreadful virus touched each man and boy in our house, leaving me up to my ears in vomit-covered linens. Washing, and washing, and washing. So I stopped cooperating with God in this revelation of my false self and starting mothering and nursing and surviving.
But God didn’t stop. Pushed to the very edge I only asked, after days of sleepless nights and smelling like another’s bile and the day that the water stopped working (isn’t this America?! How did this happen this week?), only for five or so minutes just to sit and think. And I didn’t get it. The baby couldn’t sleep and I couldn’t hold it together for one more minute.
So on this day that I live to celebrate the death that brought me life, I find myself shaking my fist at him, partnered with those who did it two thousand years ago. Just five minutes. It’s all I needed. I needed to shower, to write, to think, to sit in the bathroom by myself for just five minutes. But no, I didn’t even get that. This stone-cold heart speaks the lie I didn’t even know I was living: fine, I’ll just take care of myself. It seeps out, weeps out, bleeds out of this lifeless heart: that I’ve been taking care of myself all these years, trusting only in me. Wearing a mask that says something else but deep in this rock-hard heart, I’ve been my own sovereign. No, this is not a mask I wanted him to reveal because it’s not a mask I want to be wearing. But it’s said. Loud and silent simultaneously, it hits me in the face like the slap I deserve and a gentle kiss I don’t. The truth, breaking me.
Writing with the ladies at FMF through Lisa Jo…http://lisajobaker.com/2013/03/five-minute-friday-broken/