Tell the ones that broke you to go in peace.
Oops, I cried in church again today.
Just needed to acknowledge that right away, since displaying emotions other than happiness in public can be uncomfortable and awkward, but it's also beautiful and necessary sometimes. Especially in a safe space, like my church is for me.
I've been pretty up front with all of you about the fact that I am going through both a healing process and a journey of discovering who I truly am in Christ. Most of the details have been kept in a small circle of trusted people, primarily because healing/growth does not need to be a public spectacle. I did, however, promise to share parts of my soul that have been dusted off or refreshed in the interest of extending a vulnerability that used to define me as a person when I was much younger. For a time, I withdrew from that vulnerability in fear of what would be said or thought of me. At a certain point, though, I realized that to experience transformation in Christ and to not share that restoration journey to some extent would be a waste of storytelling ability on my part. After all, Jesus has placed these words in the deepest parts of my heart and lately He has been stirring my soul to speak. I cannot ignore that call, hence the return to writing and the newly focused effort to address injustice and life lacking inclusive love.
My heart fully broke a year ago. Not the stereotypical, high school drama version of broken heart, but the kind that leaves you aching for months afterwards. At the time, I restricted all talk about this heartbreak to my siblings, and to be honest, I didn't even talk to them about it very much. To say I suffered in silence may sound pretty dramatic to you, but it is indeed what I did. I remember sitting in church the next day feeling absolutely hollow, not quite as capable of putting on the stoic Sunday face I tended to wear at that point in my time at ReNew. A couple weeks later, my now-friend Kristen had a brief conversation with me during greeting time that has never left my memory since. In an extended moment of feeling entirely isolated and emotionally drained, I let the cracks in my heart show for a blip of time, and received both an extension of friendship and comfort that steadied me briefly. The exact wording isn't important here, but the sentiment certainly matters. (Also, I have never told Kristen this story...so hey there, friend. Sorry for the emotional bombshell. But only a little bit.)
All of this happened before I started running media or actually having conversations with people at church rather than slipping out right after the benediction. This story might be considered the often-cited footnote in the first chapter of my adult life, the footnote that I have always hoped no one would notice, so I buried it amongst the happier details. You could even say that the footnote is simply labeled "that one time" to avoid digging it back up.
So if I still avoid telling this story, why reference it now? I haven't even really told you the details, and that's still intentional. Only a few people have heard it and that's honestly okay. Here's the deal. Lately the Sunday sermons at ReNew have packed a punch that put a hole in my determination to be silent. You know, the kind of words that make you want to stand and clap your hands so hard that they sting. To seek justice and act in inclusive love no matter what obstacles present themselves, that is the call that yanked me out of my seat by the collar. It's been a months-long journey, but we're taking it together as a church and watching it happen moves me more every week.
That leads me to this morning, when I fully cried while trying to sing the closing song. Keeping in mind the footnote that remains labeled "that one time" and my growing awareness that Jesus has called me to use my everyday life to serve and love in pursuit of equality for all people, this sermon happened, and dangit, I wasn't ready.
I'm in the stage of healing where I can finally begin to find closure, and at the same time, I have found an entire portion of my identity in Christ that had been waiting in the shadows for me to welcome it into my day to day existence. When I said I had begun a new chapter and closed the door on brokenness, I truly meant it. This morning I wore a shirt that says, "Tell the ones that broke you to go in peace," words that Heath McNease wrote in his song "More Good Than Bad." Totally unplanned, entirely fitting with the tone and literal words of the sermon I heard today. The ability to close that door did not come overnight. It took multiple years of running away from processing traumas and heartbreaks and losses for me to even tell a portion of the story to a friend. And now? Now I will tell those who broke me to go in peace while existing in a community that is finding its purpose in Ames and in the world. The poetry of this symmetry stirs my soul, friends.
Happy Sunday. To those of you who are on this train with me...your love continues to be noticed.
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