Sandbags

Do you carry something on your heart with you everywhere you go?  A memory of a hurt you caused or a careless word that you wish you could take back?  Does the memory and remorse grow stronger with time instead of fade into the scenery of your mind and heart?  If not, feel free to stop reading now.  This little essay isn’t for you, but thanks for reading up to this point.  I really, honestly appreciate that you gave me any time at all, but, really, if you don’t carry even a shadow of something you wish you could undo, think of this as your class release bell.

If you’re still with me, read on.  Maybe you’ve experienced something similar, and then perhaps something in my heart will reassure you that, “You are loved beyond measure and are never alone.”  In any case, this essay’s short, and you might be entertained.

I’m a worrier by nature.  I think I inherited it somewhere along one of my mother’s 13 chromosomal contributions.  It can’t possibly have come from my father because the man has never met a situation he couldn’t smile and laugh through or even truly experienced a sleepless night regarding.  I envy that man’s sense of surety.  I’d say it might be a male verses female thing, but my sister isn’t a tremendous worrier either.  No, I think it’s a personality trait that is immune to sex roles.

So, when something weighs heavy on my mind, I will lie in bed at night staring at the ceiling until I get frustrated enough to kick off the bedclothes and wander downstairs to play the piano.  Sometimes I’m lucky enough to lose myself in the music, other times I play until I’ve made enough errors to cause Mozart and Rachmaninoff to simultaneously roll over in their respective graves, and then I quit playing and watch bad television until I get bored.  From there I’ll make my way back upstairs to stare at the ceiling again.  And, so, the cycle renews.  Fun, huh?

About a year ago, God laid it on my heart that I needed to reconcile a very old relationship as much as it was possible.  In other words, I needed to own my own mistakes.  As I clearly had felt that I bore the brunt of the injury in this relationship, my first reaction to the Lord God Almighty was, “No way, no how, not ever!”  What do you think He did with that answer?  Well, He, of course, graciously and gently accepted it, and let it go at that.

And if you believe that, I have gorgeous ocean front property right here in Arizona I’d like to sell you at a bargain price.  No – no, Abba did not quite agree with my refusal of his kindly directive, but nor was He brutal about His insistence.  He simply remained insistent for a very long time.

If you’ve ever refused the will of God, you know what that insistence feels like: sort of like a bag of wet sand thrown over your shoulders that you get to haul around town with you, never to be set down even when you lie down at night.  When you recline that impossibly heavy bag  just shifts itself conveniently to lie directly on your chest making breathing a new Olympic sport.  And as the days pass, that bag of sand gets heavier and heavier (You’d think I’d have great shoulders and triceps, but, alas, as the sand is metaphoric, I do not.).

So, after nearly a full year of God tapping on my shoulder, whispering in my ear, pouring in more sand, I sank to my knees and said, “Thy will be done.”  I thought it would be difficult, writing a letter of apology to someone who all but destroyed me (Not being dramatic here, folks.)  almost two decades ago, but do you know, that the moment I offered God my pen, the words flowed easily, without bitterness, and with a complete sense of peace.  Turns out owning my own blame, and releasing someone else from theirs was one of the most merciful and loving things God has ever done for me.

The truth we can be assured of  is that God always knows what is best for us, for all of us, and wants that, and though, at times it may not feel like it, His timing is always perfect.  Maybe a year ago I really wasn’t ready to see myself through the lens of anything other than the victim, but now I’m strong enough to know and give voice to the words,  “I’m sorry that I hurt you, too.  I’m sorry that I, too, played a role in the devastation that became our lives.”  Maybe a year ago I wasn’t capable of believing I had inflicted as much pain (well, almost as much) as I had received.  But there is also this: it’s not always about me.  So, maybe a year ago, the letter’s recipient was nowhere near able to receive my apology. So, while God was working on my heart to be able to even write the letter, He may have had just as much work to do on the heart of the letter’s addressee.

Now, I have no idea if they’ll even read my letter, but that isn’t up to me.  All that I have control over is that I responded to what my Lord asked of me (finally).  And maybe tonight there will be no lying awake staring at the ceiling, and maybe Mozart and Rachmaninoff will remain calmly in their caskets.  No guarantees, but maybe.

In His Holy and Merciful Name, Amen.