to let go

Yesterday I came to realize that there is quite a difference between a scar and a scab. A subject came up that I never thought I would be able to talk about matter-of-factly, and there was no pain, no discomfort, no anger or frustration. What I felt was compassion, understanding. And when I realized that, it occurred to me that healing had created a scar, a slub in the fabric of my life and who I am. It will always be there, which I knew, sometimes more visible than other times, but I suddenly understood that scars can indeed make us stronger.

Shortly afterwards, I cried at another conversation, as I realized that what I was feeling was a scab being picked at and pulled on. The tears were not because of what was said (or read--it was a text conversation). Rather, they came when I admitted that I was the one picking at it, and not allowing it to heal. For so long, I have told myself that others were pushing, poking, scraping off those painful places in my heart, on my very soul. I cried because I realized that's not true. All those people I've pointed at have likely been put in my life to help me heal, not to make things worse. I've resisted. (A theme, it seems.)

Over the past few days, I've been having an interesting long-distance conversation about faith, Love, and self, and the intertwining of them in honestly living life. A couple of the questions have resonated especially with me. One was an inquiry about the past events that haunt me. I wish I knew what the events are; what it is that made me resistant and willing to hold myself back. What I do know are the effects. I was once accused of using the effects to live in the past; to pull them out as a trump card to get my way. Sadly, because of who said it, I felt compelled to believe it, despite what people who knew me more deeply told me.

So after that series of emails, a conversation over dinner, and a few text messages (all with strong, faith-filled men that I admire), I sat down and had a conversation with Jesus. Actually, I wrote Him a letter. And in writing longhand in my notebook, in the silence and through tears (my M.O.!), I found the scabs I had been picking at. They are superficial, which I guess makes them easily accessible, more rippable--harder to heal. Can I put them into words that are coherent? Not entirely. I know that when I can, I will be able to let go of them, or face them--an even better choice, in all likelihood. I have an inkling, though; I can see them, taste them in some of my tears.

"Lord, please heal me of my brokenness. From it comes fear, and I don't want to be afraid....I am afraid that I am disappointing You." In my prayer last night, I was in turn afraid, angry, embarrassed and ashamed, and in the end, what mattered most, was that I felt relieved. Because I broke the silence. Because I asked for help that I know I need. Because I realized I am not permanently broken.

I woke this morning not only willing, but excited to be me--no one but me. That was my goal today: to be completely me. It was surprisingly easy! Clearly, I am not alone in my effort. I still (will always) have questions, arguments, concerns. And I'm looking forward to it all. I have a lot to let go of, and someplace to put it. With patience, these scabs can finally heal and become scars, leaving me with compassion and understanding I've been needing to share.