Today, I walked past three really cute puppies. Two baby pugs and a pomeranian to be exact. We’re friends, of course. I stop to play with them and laugh with them whenever I can. Last week I named them.
Chuck, Jay-Z, and Bey. (Jay-Z’s the big ugly one.)
This week, though. Whew.
Today, I can’t even look at them.
Because if I do, my heart grips and lurches and runs to my stomach to hide.
You know your heart is overwrung, twisted and turned, squeezed out like a sponge, when you can’t look at puppies.
The squealy, wiggly, teeny joy of Chuck brings tears to my eyes.
Because while puppies are just so cuddly and lovely, they’re also so SO small. And soft. And adorable. And vulnerable.
And in their little cage waiting to be loved.
And gosh darnit, my heart can’t handle these puppies needing to be loved right now.
Because my heart needs to be loved.
To be held tenderly and lovingly. Like I would hold Chuck the puppy.
I wish I could say that I felt like Jesus has held me like that. But lately, honestly, Jesus has been a bit reckless with me.
That’s right, I called Him reckless.
Lately, He’s asked more of me than I ever thought even possible. He’s asked me to love deeper, more selflessly, more wholly.
And let’s be honest, I want it to stop. I’m even kind of mad at Him for taking me to this place.
It feels like my heart is in one of those awful mammogram machines.
And if I’m being honest here, it’s not just lately Jesus has called me to love like this. Heart squished and stretched.
It’s been a life calling. A big one. That’s brought me tons of beauty and relationship and Jesus.
But now, holy crap NOW, I’m living in the closest community anyone could ever imagine, doing the most vulnerable of things.
And let me tell you deep love’s gotten a bit intense.
I thought I loved big at home. I have close friends and great family and depth of intimacy that involves tears and heart and anger and holding hands. But on the Race, there’s more.
I didn’t know there was more.
There’s having a vulnerable, tearful moment at night and the next morning waking up and having to decide within the first 10 minutes if you’re going to avoid your vulnerability hangover or dive in with your teammate/friend/sister.
There’s a dirty street child begging for money one afternoon and you flit away eye contact in your own avoidance of pain and hurt and need. But an hour later, you’re serving in a ministry with street kids and you’re confronted with your avoidance. Smacking you in the face.
Mocking all your emotional baggage that’s keeping you from loving.
There’s conflict and anger at dinner and you go home to sleep next to the person who you’re still achingly hurt by. You wake up and they’re still there. You go to work/ministry and they’re passing you the dirty dishes.
Ironic that it’s called the World Race because there sure isn’t any running.
The call to love deeper and better shouts at you.
Every day. Every hour. Every minute if you let it.
But what do you do with it? How do you listen to the call or ignore it?
I’ve chosen to listen to it.
To hear it when it whispers, chats, yells, or megaphones at me. To talk about the vulnerability hangover. To hold the street kids hand. To cry and explain my hurt and anger. To allow myself to be held and to choose to do the holding just as much.
But it’s not easy.
It’s brought me here. Stretched and wrung out. Tired and heart heavy.
Yesterday, I cried 3 times.
In life outside of the Race, a day is successful if you don’t cry. On the Race, I’m learning that the opposite might just be true. If I’m loving as deeply as I feel Jesus wants from me, then a successful day just might be one in which I cry three times. After all, if He’s got me on a trip to see all of the beauty and all of the pain of the world, tears aren’t just an option, they’re in the blueprints.
His blueprints.
If I’m crying, it means I’m connected. I’m choosing in, no matter the cost.
Even if the cost is my own heart.
Right now, I don’t have an answer to the pain. I want this story to end with a happy anecdote about the beauty and bravery of it all.
Because it is.
Beautiful.
And brave.
To love.
Like suddenly love has more colors. Some are so surprising you just want to stare and take it all in. Others are just nuanced versions of the pink and yellow you’ve always seen. Some are so bright they hurt your eyes.
So sure it’s beautiful.
But man the tears hurt.
So when I think of moving forward with God. In the pain of this love. I’m reminded of how in the Bible whenever anyone sees God, two things almost always happen. 1. They’re blinded. 2. They’re reminded not to be scared.
I can’t help but believe the same thing is true here. As I see more love, as I feel more of love, I see more of God’s face.
And while my eyes my hurt at the light, at the pain and the brightness of being blinded, I can rest in knowing it’s Him. And if it’s Him in the pain, then I sure don’t need to be scared.
Here we go.
Let’s all be brave.
