Pain and bathroom floors

Last night I was sitting in between two incredible friends, Sister-Warriors, listening to the raw-gut-wrenching-truth-teller, Glennon Doyle Melton. At one point she was talking about the day she found herself shaking on her bathroom floor. She was explaining addiction, but it was coming from someone we already loved on the other side of her uglier parts of addiction (so yeah know, we actually paid to listen to her). She was the addict who chose herself for the sake of her kids. I couldn't even fathom her being the self-described "bridge burner" that I could see and feel in the depths of some of the darkest pains of my soul. Because I have lost a lot to addiction. Not my addiction, but others. And when she discussed lying on her bathroom floor, I could see someone I love dearly doing the same; instead of lifting their head and feeling their own heartbeat and choosing to walk in their own brave courage, they kept lying there. And I've tried so desperately to make them want to get up. I have enabled, convicted, forgiven, turned a blind eye, denied the problem, and recently I have found myself mentally kicking this person on the bathroom floor because by God, maybe it was just high-time for some tough-love.

I wanted to leave at this point due to the sudden emotions that I had been categorizing carefully, trying to identify, looking at and and supposedly releasing. Really, I think I have been on a two week long shame-spiral. I have felt disconnected, fatigued, frazzled, volatile---it takes a tremendous amount of energy to avoid really sitting in and with your pain, oh and you have to see that your pain as valuable and as painful as someone else's to get off your shame-spiral.

But then she said something about the addict's shame. How scared they were of pain and of love. And in that moment I couldn't deny that we had more in common that I realized (my person and me). I have spent the better part of the past year learning how to recognize the little girl inside who just needs (and deserves and is worthy of) love. So I sat on Glennon's bathroom floor (clearly, we can be on first-name basis since I have been in her bathroom). I sat with my person. I sat with myself. I sat with Glennon. I sat with my two dear friends that I was sandwiched between during the event. We all sat there in silence, in love, in compassion, in pain. I think this is the truest example of what I will forever now envision "tough love". Because we are tough. Weak people hate. Weak people don't forgive. Weak people lack compassion. Weak people plow through and kick and push down the pain. True toughness looks still, looks long, looks around, sees it all and still chooses love.

Which leads me to what happened next. I got a text from my husband telling me that one of the single-most-early-in-marriage-Spiritually-influential persons we knew just confessed to manslaughter.

I have to pause here. Take some deep breaths. Let it sink it. Sit in all the pain that that single statement brings on...on me, on my former brothers and sisters, on the community, on Christianity in general.

All I could picture was my core group of kiddos that were in my own flock as their Children's Ministry leader. I hurt from their childlike perspective. I hurt in a way that took me right back to Glennon's bathroom floor. But, this was the kind of hurt that really just made me wanna close my eyes to it all and never get up again.

I didn't sleep much. I threw my phone (damn social media) at some point and flopped across my bed and sobbed. And sobbed. And sobbed.

The Bible is full of great men and great nations who fall down. Like, a lot. And yet here we are in 2016, armed with every known Bible story, SHOCKED. Wait, I thought miracles stopped with Jesus and the humanness of humanity only applied to the Israelites and Pharisees? After I kicked the ever-loving-crap-mentally out of my friend-who-did-a-very-bad-thing (the him I knew so well would've wanted and expected nothing less of me), after I cursed the existence of lust, bad choices, good intentions, deception, lying, mental illness, blah, blah, blah, after I cried out to God (for like the 2,222,222 time on behalf of this entire situation), I thought of David. A very beloved man of God, who did a very stupid, very selfish, very painful thing. And it was murder. And his was intentional. I don't know (and don't want to know) if my friend's actions were intentional or not. Truly, who he had become at that point of his life is so far from the man I knew that I cannot even conceptualize. What I do know is that sin is sin. Intended sin and unintended sin (I have 5 kids, can I get a what-what for every time I have heard "I didn't mean to....") hurts. It hurts us. It hurts others. It hurts God. My sin, your sin, his sin, again my sin. Hurts.

But how did God respond to David's sin (or mine for that matter)? He brings accountability. He brings justice. He also brings restoration. Not the feel-good kind that obliterated David's sin and brought a husband and wife back together, but Solomon was one of my favorites (also became the wisest-idiot a time or two). How am I supposed to respond to all this hurt? And judging by the out-lash of my former community, it's a whole lot of hurt that isn't going anywhere anytime soon.

I'm gonna start by inviting my friend (yes, I still love him...just like I still love the aforementioned person who has poured more pain in my life than any other) onto Glennon's bathroom floor (Sorry, G...it's gonna get pretty crowded...but I'm starting to think that is the only way you'd have it). In my prayers, in my words, in my actions, I am going to invite God to help me unclench my fists, to open my arms, and to bow my head in humility and grace. Not because it's a reflection of what these people in particular deserve, not because it's a reflection of my toughness or holiness (or complete ignorance...hello...Vulnerability...yeah...no....damn...sigh...ok), but rather because I want to be a reflection of Jesus and the God I have chosen to serve.

I am going to pray for restoration for the whole damn lot of us. I am going to ask God for personal conviction. For a peace that passes all understanding. For pain to be sat with and left lying as opposed to being flung at each other. For a greater awareness of when the people I love are starting to slip and need accountability, support, intervention. For the capacity to still see them as people...as God sees us all.

And I'm gonna pray for Glennon to get a bigger bathroom.