The act of writing when the final purpose is to share the heart articulated in word so that others might not feel the ache of isolation, a solitude that they suffer alone, is dauntingly vulnerable. It is to say, “here I am, the darkest, most broken, most pitiful parts of my soul that I have yet explored, and I will shine this lamp upon these pieces and beg that you find a companion, a kindred spirit, rather than a place to bring judgment and terrorize these tender morsels of myself.” I have had a small number of terrorizers of my written word, those who would read my words and not honor the bloodied, painful sacrifice, but would impose their own intent, their own desires upon that which I stumble through amateurishly with sincere intent for good. My life has been racked with sorrow after sorrow, as many of ours has been, and yet I was given an obnoxious hunger that nothing be wasted, that the tears that have soaked my bed covers and flooded my floors would water the trees that bring shade and comfort to the war torn soldier of life who finds reprieve under the canopy; a breath, a rest, a droplet of hope, a smidgen of courage to press on. In this, perhaps I find my most selfish pursuit, that in offering up my own sufferings, I might find meaning and thus, my own hope. I am hungry to find the purpose in this toil of suffering, and perhaps if I find the purpose, I will find my own shaded tree and be restored.
I temporarily unpublished my public writings as the ravager set out to destroy the ground beneath me, a humiliation that my heart revealed, fallible in all its ways, would be used as fodder to hold me to standards and judgments my sacrifice was not prepared to field. My thoughts captured in a moment of time held against me as though I were not an ever evolving human, capable of folly and growth. It disheartened me, broke me. I wanted to store up my precious pieces and place them back into hiding, where the catharsis of sharing and growing with others would be no more; but for the one who brings light and life interjecting his opinion upon my flight to safety through a treasured friend. Thank God we have a magnificent and endlessly creative Lord to wage this war.
After nearly a decade of going our own way and life lapping away the hours and days, tragedy reconnected me to a dear friend who will be to me, forever, like a sister. She is after all, my sister in Christ; a family ever growing, a battalion of women prayer warriors intent on not allowing the work of the enemy to render us useless for the Kingdom of God, though he tries with persistent and unoriginal means to do so. God himself ordained that she and I walk through similarly dark seasons, and I will be forever grateful to her and her sweet children who are sacred and dear in my heart. In her boldness of sharing her heart with me recently, I felt compelled, that my flight to safety was more cowardly than the spirit God implanted in me could withstand. She firmly spoke truth over me, having witnessed me at my lowest and seeing firsthand the work God did in my life, through my despair, she spoke truth and light into death and darkness, reminding me of all I overcame with God as my companion. There were countless days and nights she and I held each other up through our storms. God knew that we would many years later be able to remind each other of his faithfulness even when life moved us apart. She told me that my words have been healing to her over the years, and she reminded me that I write not for the masses, but for the individual lonely soul whose heart aches for home.
The words have struggled to come in this past year, darkness had won, but as is and will always be the case, its victories are short lived. I had for much of my life, longed to be an attorney, to advocate for those who could not advocate for themselves. I ached to pour out my love for my brothers and sisters in every way possible, to be emptied of the love so immense it caused me pain to retain. I had been fortunate to have been mentored by one of our nation’s top family attorneys, known across the states for his ethical work and incidences of victories. He, a first generation Italian immigrant, felt similar to me, seeing his family and neighbors taken advantage of by English speaking contractors and builders; he wanted to aid the defenseless. I recall asking him in his office one day, how he dealt with those who refused to tell the truth. In his gruff voice, he leaned forward and said, “my mother would tell me, ‘Bruno, lies have short legs and the truth has long legs. No matter how fast the lies run, the truth will always catch up to them.’” Even typing those words, I am moved by the heritage of good, wholesome people who strove against all odds, to do what is right, and though they did not know it, their goodness would land on this awkward little girl’s heart and take root, even when she went temporarily astray.
Bruno passed away the very day I drove to my hometown with my children this past Fall. A man who shared his wisdom with me, even though I did not carry it to the law field; his conviction to pour into others even though he would never see the investment fulfilled heartens me to shake off the heartache, the depression, the darkness, to heed the voices of my godly counsel and to press on in light and in truth.
Should I die tomorrow, I do not want to have withheld the beauty and darkness of these recent days that may be an ally, a comfort to the lonely heart. I believe that my words shared with these broken hearted treasures of souls, some of whom I will never meet, will be my greatest and most silent legacy, my offering of my sorrows and revelations and joys of the work God does in this wretch of a woman. There is no fanfare, no marketing ploy, it is simply the love-soaked work of articulating God’s faithfulness in my sin, in my heartache, in my joy, in my contentedness. God is good, all the time. Now it is time, to bring his light into the dark.
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