How I’ve
toiled and troubled over this blog entry.
It’s ridiculous, really. A blog
by definition is comprised of the writer’s own experiences or observations or
opinions. I’ve experienced many things,
and I’ve observed many more, and opinions are NOT a thing of which I’m in short
supply! Yet my ongoing tussle with
perfectionism has served to render me paralyzed. Or more accurately stated, my tendency to
embrace perfectionism is more rightly to blame for my mental paralysis.
I know
perfectly well what I wish to convey to anyone who reads my musings.
You
matter, and your life has purpose, and your brokenness matters, and it is not a
disease, nor is it definition.
There
is not one of us who isn’t broken in one way or another. But our brokenness has found redemption. Love made a way, and as only Love can, he
holds on to every single shard, sliver, and fragment, and he gloriously calls
those pieces into wholeness. What an
amazing, incredible, mystifying dichotomy- being beautifully broken and wholly
complete, already but not yet.
This message
of hope is what my heart longs to convey.
You are loved. And while that phrase, unfortunately, has
become somewhat trite and cliché and holds no meaning to many who have been
offered a brand of “love” that is as far from the real thing as night is from
day, there is a true Love who knows all and sees all and looks upon you and
says, “You are amazing! Your beauty
captivates me, and my heart longs for you.”
But I want to
say all of this the “right” way. What if
the words I choose are somewhat lackluster?
Will I have failed? I must ask
myself, “Fail at what?” Because if this
is about my ability to string words together and construct sentences, then this
becomes so much less about the hearts of the broken and my desire to share Love
with those to whom have been affixed the labels “Unlovable”; “Undesirable”;
“Unwanted”; “Broken”; “Discarded”… and it becomes all about me. Certainly I’m apt to fail. Inevitably, I’ll overlook the use of an
exceptionally fitting word and use one that doesn’t quite make the statement I’m
hoping to make, or I’ll commit some heinous grammatical faux pas. But my writing savvy or lack thereof is NOT what I desire this be about. This is about saying yes to a dance. You see, I’ve been she who has worn the
aforementioned labels (and then some), who has longed to be loved and wanted
simply because of who I was while fearing to hope that who I was would be
enough. I’ve been broken; I am
broken. But I’m also one who has been
swept off her feet and up into the arms of Love himself and invited to dance
with him forever. Part of that dance is
discovering who I am as he puts pieces of my life back in place, and in that
discovery process, passions are unearthed.
One of mine is seeing broken lives restored and life breathed into
parched hearts as people encounter God as he truly is- not one out to condemn
them or chastise them or point out every flaw and foible, but one who sees
beyond the missteps and fumbles and setbacks and shortcomings to a heart he
longs for and labels nothing less than “Beloved.”
So he smiles
at me, holds out his hand, and asks, “Will you dance with me?” And oh, how my heart leaps! And I step up to take his hand, and then… I
look at my feet. Huh. Not too graceful. My form is all wrong! I look like I’m doing the Robot when God is
clearly dancing a waltz! Good grief!
But I
realize: God never asked me if I could dance. He asked me if I would dance. Maybe he’s
perfectly capable of perfectly leading a less than capable dancer such as
myself because he could care less about my form. Perhaps he’s delighted simply with my
willingness to take his hand and clumsily move.
Maybe he’ll work on the form as we go along; or maybe he’s especially
fond of the “gracefully impaired.” Whatever
the case, he loves me. He loves
you. And he’s lovingly taking care of
all the pieces.
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