Almost a year and a half ago, I remember telling one of my pastors that the next six months were going to be really hard. Should have saved that thought for this round of counseling. Owe! I am okay. It is just so hard this time. This layer of bouncing emotions. Of nothing being stable. Of everyone caring. Of no one caring. It is so hard to be loved.
Recently in some random conversation someone made the statement that it would be impossible to go through life without being loved. You would have to go be a hermit somewhere and never see people. I am so grateful this person was both genuine and naive at the same time. I did not need to leave a city to not be loved. All I had to do was decide not to be. It worked very well for the first 28-ish years of my life. The love people gave I saw as manipulation and control. I feared it. I was not loved. It is all just a matter of perspective (and experience).
Two prayers exist in me right now. One wants to leave and run and let this all behind. That is not really a prayer. It is just fear. The other asks God if I might just stay here forever. Not because these are the only people in the world who love me or would love me, but because this is where I was first loved. The first ever place I came with no intention of leaving.
Odd to say that since the first nine months I was here, I had a one day commitment to this place. I had a car. Everything I owned fit in my car. I could drive away tomorrow. Being able to drive away helped me stay. Then God asked me to give my car away. That ended that escape. It was a bit of a hard adjustment at first. Then over a year after that, I went hog wild as far as commitment is concerned, I quit sleeping on the floor and accepted the gift of a bed.
Still somehow this is the end of the road. The place I quit running and started to live. The place I quit blaming others and looked at myself. The place I committed and asked God to change my heart.
A part of me wants to run. The knee-jerk reaction part. But honestly, I want to stay. I pray to God everyday that I might stay and love this church and town. These are my people. This is my home. They are all I have. It is all I have. (I meant to say this is my town. Let’s go with Freudian slip).
Homes are painful places. One cannot get away from them. If I left this place without God directing me to in a very crystal clear way, I do not think I would ever get over it. It really quite honestly must be my first love. I experienced Him so much before here, but it is here I left His people love me.
Yesterday night, I was in a conversation about God’s story versus the American story. Somehow one of the questions was about what the outcome or goal of the American story was. It was weird because in my genuine answer I confessed I think it has not been until the last year that I actually considered other people in decisions I made about my life. Everything was entirely wrapped up in me. Even my volunteer work and “serving”.
The old me wants to run, but I cannot because it is not about me.
For we know that when this earthly tent we live in is taken down (that is, when we die and leave this earthly body), we will have a house in heaven, an eternal body made for us by God himself and not by human hands. – 2 Corinthians 5:1
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