I should start by telling you that it took me far too long to post this. I thought of the million ways I could sugar coat it or make it sound less emotional. I wanted to make it more presentable, but the thing is, it’s not. So, I’ll give it to you straight.
-Luke 6:45
I’m not really a crier. I never have been. I’m more of the “bottle-it-up-until-you-can’t-take-it-anymore” kind. I’ve been that way forever, erupting as a waterfall over things that – to those outside the realm of my mind’s inner workings – seem absolutely mundane; in reality, the catapult of tears comes directly from a residue build-up left uncared for, like a seemingly harmless weed that eventually overgrows an entire garden.
I cried long, massive, drawn out sobs that had my heart commanding my body to convulse, sobs that left me aching physically throughout every part of my body and aching emotionally throughout every part of my mind, sobs that exuded loss, betrayal, despair, loneliness, abandonment, rejection, fear, and hopelessness; I cried those sobs that were the abundance of my heart.
And of course, I tried to hide those sobs. I hung my head to the ground. I sat down and buried my face in oversized sweatshirt sleeves. I thought that maybe if I could band aid the physical tears, it might heal the emotional pain.
There are a lot of things to be said about training camp – what I learned, re-learned, what I came to understand as truth – but I went into training camp having asked for one thing in particular: “God, fill me.” I prayed those words not quite comprehending their implications for the week.
The thing is, I came into training camp full already. God doesn’t work the way I would, though. I’d see a full glass, a full vessel, and I’d move right on to the next one, not paying any mind to what the vessel was actually full of. God’s more thorough than I am. His quality control is meticulous. For Him, something can be completely full and still be hollow. He deems that in order to be full of Him, one must first be emptied of all else.
God honored my request, but not without some emptying first. Those sobs were what emptied me. With every heave, I lost a little bit more of what had begun to overflow within my heart. I shed layers of emotional baggage that I had forgotten to claim. I lost walls of mold and mildew that had crept into my person. What began feeling like purposeless sobbing ended feeling like much needed release.
That night was the most difficult night for me at training camp, but it was also the most worthwhile. When I think of Luke 6:45, I think of overflow. The substance of your heart is what will come out of you. When I asked God to fill me, I unknowingly asked God and His character to become my overflow.
It’s hard to submit willingly to a process that I know will be excruciatingly painful, but I find myself left with what I identify to be the truth: the less there is of me, the more there is of Him (John 3:30).
