I am doing it all wrong and I know it. I am angry. Really angry. And I am holding on to being right. Jesus never did that. He never held on to being right. He never even defended himself which is remarkable considering he always had the moral high ground…. He didn’t keep a record of wrongs, and he always forgave. Not because things were necessarily going to change, but because he is full of grace. I am full of something else right now. I am angry. Upset. Right. Harboring and holding onto injured pride and hurt feelings. I am all closed up. Eyes shut, arms folded, back turned. And I cannot seem to let it go. That’s where I am. So what do I do? I think this is when I am supposed to ask God to change my heart. But I don’t want to. Not yet.

I think this is the time I need to ask God to be with me, comfort me. Love me. Provide for me what the world and those in it cannot. Not because they are not good enough but because I am not meant to be fulfilled by those in the world, no matter how much I love them. I am meant to be fulfilled by God and then love others with the overflow. But I am not at that place. I want to be taken care of by those in the world. But that’s not how it works. That’s not how any of this works.

I want to unfriend the people who hurt me but I cannot. I cannot because I love them too much…so much. One of the great ironies of life is that I hurt the people I love the most, and they me. My broken places wound them, just as much as their broken places cut me. It hurts so much, precisely because we love each other.

When I was little I would get mad in the exact same way, with an intensity that caught even me by surprise. I don’t remember a single thing I got mad about, but I remember every ounce of that feeling. It was a lethal combination of it’s-not-fair and you-hurt-my-feelings – – a Tasmanian cloud of emotion that would not let me go. So when I was that little and that mad, my Dad would scoop me up and hold me in his arms and I would thrash and kick and want out more than you could imagine. But he would walk to his office, me struggling to break free, talking to me in his low, smooth voice, telling me that he loved me, and that he knew… he knew… he knew… His arms were strong and loving and they didn’t stop me from flailing but they prevented me from falling. Those arms held me in the midst of my first true embrace. It was an I-love-you-no-matter-what hold. Full of strength and grace and tenderness, all at once. It was firm and loving and safe and immoveable. His love was never subject to my mood. It was truly unconditional. And the longer he held me, the more my thrashing only served to drive me closer to him, head tucked into his shoulder, arms folded between me and his chest, legs eventually going limp. There was something about being loved through the thrashing, that made the need to thrash go away. Being loved through the thrashing counted more than regular love and had a more profound effect. It made me feel safe; it made everything o.k., even though nothing had changed.

So perhaps I need to go and thrash around with God because He loves me like that. He won’t let me go. He will say, I know… I know…I know… until I grow tired of flailing around and fall into Him, synchronizing my breath with His, and finding calm again. Peace again. My dad was amazing at giving me that time and space in such wonderful proximity to him. And God is even better. He never tires of me, no matter how I come to Him. He always wants me, no matter what condition I am in. He never takes my moods personally. In God, there is always a place to start over, a place of redemption, and love and acceptance. And His love? It makes it better. It’s the only thing that does.