Words...

Words have never come easy. 
More often than most they feel like hot coals that slowly find their way through.

Why?

We can blame some various things: I have seen the powerful force that they can have behind them, I am scared and afraid of what others may think of them, and quite honestly sometimes they just aren’t even there. But I don’t believe I’m alone in this struggle. Excuse me if I am braving too close to the edge of extreme boldness here… but I believe many, if not most, struggle with this. Especially those words that expose who we really are.

I just finished watching the movie To Write Love On Her Arms (Like literally, jumped from the couch and came here immediately following the credits). If you haven’t heard of that very real and very moving movie (that actually is a real help organization too) then I urge you deeply, go now and watch it. This blog post will be here when you’re done.

[Now that your back… Welcome]

Sometimes I laugh at God’s timing on things. Other times I cry. 

This particular moment, it happens to be a bit of both.

For those of you who put off my suggestion (just saving it for another time soon approaching, I’m sure) Here’s a bit of background: This film is about a very real and living girl named Renee Yohe who is raped, finds herself addicted to drugs and alcohol, and cuts her arms for the final attempt to get through the pain of all she has been through. 

It’s a raw story. It’s real. It’s life.

Gotta say, I cringed and cried more than I was expecting. 

But I guess that’s what happens when a story bleeds out… especially if it bleeds out into yours.

But Renee seeks help. Rather, I guess you can say help finds her. She recovers. She falls. She recovers. And falls again. But it is so breathtakingly beautiful and it is this aspect above all else that had me frantically running to my laptop.

Remember my struggle with words? Today, and for many days and maybe weeks before, I had come to the conclusion that they no longer mattered. My voice doesn’t have to be heard. My story doesn’t matter. Sara doesn’t matter. When you get there… in that darkness that drags you away further and further into the sea… before you know it your locked in the undertow. And you are drowning. Stuck in the current and one thing after the other begins to happen and all the while you want to scream for it to stop… but you have chosen silence. You have chosen secrets.

“Secrets make you sick.”

One of the vast choices of inspirational quotes from this movie, 

but this one really struck a chord.

Let’s ask the why question again.

Why?

Surely it’s not because I have secrets. 

Surely it’s not because I wear a mask sometimes. 

Surely it’s not due to me hiding where I’m at and also lacking to inform others 

when struggles arise once more and I feel the helpless current take me back.

Well, for now… let’s go with all of those things.

But I’m not fearful with admitting to any of those. 

Because I know you do too.

Now start asking your more detailed questions and run different scenarios of what you think I may not be sharing. 

By all means, run yourself wild. 

But allow me to shed a bit of light to save you some time.

I have made poor decisions. Those backed behind the desire to be solely wanted by someone.

Wanted.

It still has a nice ring to it. Little did I know that it could come with it’s own set of a ball and chain. It would leave me with scars. It would leave me with nightmares. It would leave me with anxiety attacks. It would haunt my relationships with other people. It would pull me everyday to slowly consider leaving Jesus. It would leave me with secrets because I felt not many could handle it. Not many needed to know. I was hurting. And years later, I still do. But you get tired of being “that girl” who still hurts. That girl who just can’t get over it. That girl who always seems to be sad. That girl who is always making another wrong choice. And then you grow afraid of saying a few words and then being left alone to deal with it, time and time again. Silence grows appealing. And more and more you wear it. And referring back to the quote… the sicker and sicker you get.

That’s right. 

I’m sick. 

I’ve had cancer. 

But even the worst chemo didn’t make me feel like this. 

And even almost dying felt easier than this frantic swim.

But how does one get well?

Well think back a bit, how does one get sick? Having secrets.

So perhaps one could argue that the way to get well would be to speak more and stay silent less.

Maybe instead of being locked away alone in a house the answer looks more like having real conversations with people.

Maybe it’s me straight up admitting when I’m struggling. 

Not just hiding it or leaving “clue words” in hopes of someone noticing and digging the rest out.

Maybe it’s me asking for help.

I just figure that since Jesus tells us to not neglect meeting together and living life with one another (Hebrews 10:25) and to never cease encouraging one another (1 Thessalonians 5:11) this idea may be on the right track.

I need you

You need me.

We all need Jesus.

And we all need to be reminded of who He is and how much we need Him.

And if we want to be honest, I forget how much I need Jesus and people, more often than not.

Praying is somewhat easy because I can be isolated in my room and do it.

Living life and loving people is when it gets hard and messy.

But perhaps instead of spreading this sickness of silence, 

we can instead start a widespread infection of openness and honesty.

And this scares the living daylights out of me. And I’m honestly probably going to tell someone tomorrow that life is dandy and perfect. Just because it’s what I do best. And my life isn’t all awful, there is plenty of good. So it wouldn’t be lying, right? Well, but consider if that answer seeps into the answer I give to those who genuinely ask and genuinely care. Even if it hurts, am I willing? Even if they don’t respond how I wish they would, am I willing? Even if they call me a crazy person and walk away from me forever, am I willing? Or on the flip side… Am I willing to ask people the hard questions? Am I willing to take the time to listen, even if my schedule is crazy and I haven’t slept in 36 hours? Am I willing to not have all the right answers or the quick fix but dive head first into the filthy mess of relationships? These are questions I’m wrestling with now. And I ask you to do the same.

Words are important.

Secrets are killer.

And every person’s story matters.

Are we willing to tell them?

Are we willing to read?