The sign read YIELD.
Cars decided to merge.
Rushing.
All of them. Willing to wrongfully merge into the on-ramp traffic from their YIELD lane - not yielding at all. Darting out in front of the cars that had the right-of-way. They chose not to follow instructions. They decided to take matters into their own hands.
Rushing.
It happens too often. Cars dangerously switching through lanes at 90 mph because the cars they find themselves behind are going too slow. The nerve of them to go the speed limit. All rushing to a destination that quite possibly isn't going anywhere. A destination they could make it to on time had they left a few minutes earlier. Or planned better.
They're rushing. Everyone's rushing. Only to crash a few miles up the road. Only to spin out of control and hit a guardrail, or ram into the car of someone else who was dedicated to taking their own time. Drastically ruining the lives of everyone involved - all those connected to them - and never make it to the destination they were rushing to. This is often the case in car accidents.
This is often the case in our lives.
We're in such a rush, we choose to merge when life tells us to yield. Instead of stillness we forge our own way. We decide to create our own destiny when our God-given one seems to be taking too long. We veer off the right path into a path of our own. We make up our own rules, create our own fate, and speed 90 mph through the lanes, rushing to an assignment we weren't ready for. An assignment that wasn't ready for us. Then we either spin out and crash, or arrive and ruin it.
We rush because we think we're ready for something we're not. We reroute our path to something that wasn't even meant for us, just so we can have that of which we think we deserve. We refuse to be readied. We just want to get there. Forget the preparation. Forget (divine) order. Forget the process. Hell, forget the other cars on the on-ramp; the other lives our disobedience is destroying. We have places to get to, and clearly, we have chaos to cause.
YIELD, the sign read.
I always yield when I must. I hope you begin to, ‘cause I’d hate to see you crash.
I sat in the theater, reclined my seat, and began eating the Trolli gummy worms I smuggled in. The previews were still rolling as I heard my neighbor unwrap what smelled like a God-awful bologna sandwich. Blasphemous! Regardless of her dining option, we both connected with our desire to have what the movie theater did not provide—outside food, and what we'd later find out would be a blessed lesson on healing.
I'd just finished reading the book, The Shack, in preparation for the film; both were incredible. But one of the most amazing things about the film was the sense of peace I felt upon leaving the theater. The lessons on healing Mack received had a different feel seeing them on the screen than they did when I read them in the book. And for those of you who need some of the healing power presented by this beautifully produced film, here are a few lessons about healing I learned from The Shack:
Healing requires confrontation.
God (affectionately known as Papa; though ironically being displayed as a black woman played by the great Octavia Spencer—hey girl!), penned a letter to Mack inviting him to the shack in which his daughter was molested and killed. Understandably angry, Mack asked God "why'd you bring me back here?", to which God replied, "because here is where you got stuck." Papa could've taken Mack anywhere to be healed. He could've been healed at his home. In the church. Or in the driveway where Mack slipped and hit his head before retrieving the letter. But Papa brought him to the very place that broke him. Sometimes that's how healing happens—smack dab in the middle of the very thing you need healing from. Sometimes you'll have to revisit that place, however dark and gloomy it may be. You'll have to relive those moments; that pain. You'll have to face those things you've tried to hide from. You'll have to confront those feelings, those demons, you've been letting fester and grow uncontrollably inside of you. Sometimes to heal, God will make you see the things you don't want to, and relive the moments that caused the most pain. Because in order to let go, you must recognize what to let go of.
Salvation and healing is an invitation to freedom.
"We're so happy you accepted our invitation," said Jesus (represented by a middle-eastern man). Mack didn't have to go to the shack if he didn't want to. He didn't have to follow Jesus toward the more 'enchanted' part of the forest. Shoot, he didn't even have to stay once he got there. But he did. He chose to. He accepted Jesus' invitation to what he was unsure would become the most therapeutic weekend of his life. He accepted the longstanding invitation from The Savior, and you have the choice to do the same. Every day we wake up, Jesus gives us an invitation to allow Him to live through us. For us to pass our burdens unto Him. For us to cast our cares on Him. For Him to handle everything for us. For us to be saved and redeemed through Him. And every day that offer is extended we have the choice to accept it. To first show up at the shack, then to follow Him to the more enchanted parts of the journey...or to walk away. To pack it up and go home. To dismiss the process we're about to go through, and to go back to where we're comfortable. The choice to accept His invitation is yours. It always will be.
Stop trying to understand.
Too often in our hurt, we want to understand the why. We spend more time trying to figure out why we've been betrayed, hurt, disappointed, failed, etc., than we do asking God to deliver us from it. More time praying for the answers to our questions, than we do praying ourselves toward healing. "You're trying to make sense of your world by a very incomplete picture." We'll never be able to understand. We only have 25% of the pieces (with no picture on the box) but are trying to figure out the whole puzzle. That won't happen. It never will. To heal, we have to let go of our desire to understand, and work to accept the healing offered by God through salvation and relationship. When we get out of our own way—asking all the whys and pursuing closure that may never come—we open ourselves up to God's will [hint: God's will is healing and restoration].
There is no such thing as pain-free.
Anyone who has been healed knows that the healing process sometimes hurts more than the brokenness we needed to be healed from. So many of us expect healing to be effortless. We expect to wake up one day fully restored. Fully redeemed. But healing doesn't happen that way, nor does life. We're quickly reminded in the movie, many times actually, that nothing about our life's process is without pain. "You want the promise of a pain-free life? There isn't one." God doesn't promise us pain-free. But what He does promise is everlasting life and prosperity; joy and peace; growth and healing.
Healing takes work.
Like, real work. "You're not stuck because you can't, you're stuck because you won't," said The Father (God being represented as male for the first and only time throughout the movie). Do. the. work. Drop. the. pride. Be. willing. I literally dropped the mic at the end of that lesson.
We all go through something. Some battle. Some struggle. A life event that knocks the wind out of us. But it may be deeper than you realize.
This episode tackles:
- The reality that your everyday struggles are really spiritual battles
- Why that is the case
- And two ways you can defeat those battles spiritually, and truly conquer carnally.
Privacy was easy; it was what we founded our relationship on. We didn’t need social media displays of affection, or to yell that we were dating from the mountaintop. We wanted simplicity. And that came in the form of keeping our relationship business, ours. Our privacy, however, looked different. Mine was to maintain the sanctity of our relationship, his was to lighten the blow of having recently ended a long-term relationship, and to avoid the backlash he’d receive because of it. He disguised it as privacy. Disguised it as protection.
I let him do so. Believing that since we both agreed that we should keep things private to make our relationship easier – to sustain it a little longer – then it’d work for me. It didn’t work for me.
The foundation you build your relationship on shapes every obstacle that is to come. The honeymoon stage is important. As much as we wanted to believe our foundation was sturdy – as it was built on genuine connection and intimacy, and rooted in privacy (thus, less gossip) – it was just as shaky as the one that preceded it. Though created on the grounds of friendship and understanding, it was being built on the premise of hiding our truth. Masking what we wanted so bad, and restricting ourselves from displaying that desire. We hid others from our truth so long, that our truth started hiding from us. "Privacy, we need privacy," I’d tell myself, as I’d spend holidays with my family, as opposed to each others. "Privacy, we need privacy," I’d repeat as I’d watch his friends coddle his ex, but still be unaware about me. I’d know their lives, know their stories, know who they are, but I wasn’t even sure if they’d be able to spot me in a room of five people. That wasn’t privacy. That wasn’t protection.
While I always attempted to understand his reasoning – partly because he was constantly in the public eye and partly because I just didn’t want to be bothered – I always felt he had something to hide. I felt I was inadequate. I felt I wasn’t enough. (Hence my uplifting affirmation: I am more than enough!)
Our relationship, that was built on the guise of privacy, became quickly corrupted by the feelings of insecurity and low-worth. It was watered down by the ex-girlfriend drama and my failing desire to want to fight for it. (Not physically. Never physically.) The privacy affected our certainty, or lack thereof, and our uncertainty affected our effort. We didn’t want to give too much for fear of losing it all, but we knew giving too little would be pointless. We built a fence up to our collarbones, high enough to protect our bodies from the bruising, but low enough to stare into each others souls. We didn’t want real love, we wanted safe love. We wanted it to feel good and to hurt less. We wanted to be in it up to our necks, but not over our heads. That uncertainty sprouted from the constant masquerade that there was nothing going on between us. It was shaped from going to events and pretending to not have ridden in the same car. It was hugging as if the night before we hadn’t just cuddled. Everything, all of it, surrounding our foundation – the notion that all that we are together, shouldn’t come to life.
The foundation we built wasn’t sturdy at all. No matter how we tried to hide that reality – attempting to patch things up without digging deep enough to capture the true problem – they came out over and over again. It’s why I felt half wanted in the relationship; why I felt like he was being only half transparent with me, while he felt he told me everything; why being out at events (a little more openly toward the end) still didn't feel like enough; why I felt confined to our respective apartments and a few wine nights out with his mom, and nothing more – even though there was honestly nothing more I’d want to be part of (at least that’s what I told myself). It's why the thoughts of meeting his judgmental friends stopped being a priority of mine, though deep down inside affecting how I interpreted my role in his life.
Despite what it appears, we were in a good place – often. I knew the truth of our love and how far it was willing to stretch. But the uneven foundation we built those years ago, played a huge role in the struggles we faced throughout our time together. They played a role in the insecurities we both felt and our responses to them. So when I’m prompted to write about how to love ‘her’ – how to love me – I really just want to say “from the foundation up”. Don’t start loving me when you realize you love me, love me from the start. Love me from the minute you lay that first brick. Love me from the very first butterfly, to your very last breath.
Love me openly. Without ceasing. Love me publicly and privately. In the face of others, with no regard to how uncomfortable it makes them feel. Love me unashamedly and unapologetically.
Love me honestly. With your intent worn on your sleeve. With a mouth full of promises you intend to keep. Love me enough to see a future. To proclaim that future. To not be teetering on the edge, but to know, with no doubt, what you’re in it for. Love me enough to not be ashamed to tell anyone or show anyone. Let your honest love stem beyond our four walls, but into the walls of others lives.
Love me in a way I’ve never been loved. With intention, certainty, promise and purpose. Love me in the way God told you to; and give me nothing less than that.
