I am not strong: a year of writing publicly

I think I scared him.

I called downstairs for a bottle of Aleve and some water. But I don’t think my husband expected to find me lying down in the hallway upstairs.

I feel silly when it makes me cry. I’m a grown woman, for crying out loud. I grit my teeth with every intention of bearing it, but my eyes are traitors and the degree of pain’s grip leaks down my cheeks. Even after nearly fourteen years of marriage to a man who knows me better than I do, I don’t want him to see it. I want him to think I’m stronger than he expected. He will never see me endure the pain of childbirth, that sacred event that always sends a husband into the waiting room, gushing to well-wishers about the deep, persevering strength he didn’t know his wife possessed. The respect on his face is written in tear tracks and blinding smiles.

But my husband won’t see that kind of strength in me, so I try to be brave when I crawl to the bed so he knows I would be strong if given the opportunity. This is my opportunity, but without the reward. Mutinous tears give me away. I couldn’t talk through the pain, and I remembered what the serious-faced doctor said: “When you can’t live with the pain, it’s time to do something.” These episodes are happening too close together, and I know what it means.

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Nearly a year ago I went public with this blog when I shared a post about this very topic. I sat in a Wal-Mart parking lot that day and cried a river of tears over something I thought was long buried. Every episode of searing, breathless pain digs it up again. I shovel the dirt back on quickly, though. Ruminating on past losses and the permanency of my options isn’t helpful for moving on. It’s been a full circle kind of week.

I want to be strong. But I’m not.

And it’s okay, though it brushes against my desire for self-sufficiency with all the subtleness of a jackhammer.

It’s okay. My personal reserves of strength would never propel me through life like I need.

No, I need a much stronger arm to hold on to.

Or, to hold on to me.

And He does.

He is.

A year ago I decided to put my internal wrestlings in a letter that anyone could read. It’s been a year of bleeding out in the open with the hope that someone finds comfort in knowing they’re not alone in their hope of suffering well, in looking for Jesus in pain, and in knowing they are loved deeply by God. It gives me fulfillment knowing that pain doesn’t have to be wasted if it can become a place of ministry. Sometimes it’s emotional pain, sometimes spiritual, sometimes physical. Sometimes it’s all three tangled up together. It’s times like these when I know I’m down deep in the valley of shadows and understanding that God’s grace is sufficient for me. It’s in the vise of pain when I can see that His strength is being made perfect in my weakness. All along, it’s always His strength on display, not mine. And if my husband or you or anyone watching can see Jesus’ strength on display in my struggles, then that is far better than the apparition of physical strength I thought I wanted to display.

There’s nothing to prove when the strong arm upholding you belongs to the Lord.

There is nothing to writing. All you do is sit down at a typewriter and bleed.

                                                                                                                ~Ernest Hemingway

For a year I’ve emptied the contents of my heart on these pages, weakness pouring out so you can see where borrowed strength rises up in the middle of pain and fear. Sometimes I want to press the button to make it all go away. Vulnerability always exposes more than I intended.  But shared struggle leads to a shared hope, so I back away from the button and let it rest. The anchoring my faint heart needs is always found in the faithful love of Christ who, with each episode of uncertainty, reminds me just how faithful He has always been, how good, how present, and how very, very strong. All I have needed His hands have provided, and provide they will continue to do, even if it’s just faith to be strong. Every time I feel compelled to sweep the cobwebs out of my heart, the Lord faithfully pours back in what I need to press on.

I consider it a privilege and a joy to be weak in front of you, friends.

I want you to see His strong arm.

But He said to me, “My grace is sufficient for you, for My power is made perfect in weakness.” Therefore I will boast all the more gladly of my weaknesses, so that the power of Christ may rest upon me.

                                                                                                                         2 Corinthians 12:9

Here’s to another year.