Wednesday, July 11, 2012

On Doubting and Choosing

When I awaken in the night to horrific scenes that seem more real then the real thing, when I find myself in the corner of the darkness hiding, when I can’t breathe because the pain is so overwhelming—yes, pain from something that wasn’t even real. But it was.

When I wake up, this man I want so desperately to trust, he tells me my life will be better without the one of whom I just dreamed. The one who seems to be found at the climax of the deepest hurts in my life. He tells me that he doesn’t want me to talk to him anymore—period. Yes, the very one whose genes I bear.

Okay, for how long? My doubts begin to flare up.

A year…maybe forever. It doesn’t matter really. You just don’t talk to him indefinitely for now.

What about Thanksgiving? I murmur softly. Does that mean I can’t see my siblings? Does that mean I can’t go to family events? What will I do at Christmas?

I am drowning in doubt now.

Don’t worry about it—we will deal with those situations as they come up. He always gives us a way out. Right now, all you need to focus on is health and Truth. You don’t need his voice in your head. I want to step in and protect you here. It’s up to you if you let me.   

Long Pause.

What are you thinking about over there?

Hesitation. Doubt.

Okay, I will do whatever you think is best.
But I want him to know that I am not silent because I am bitter or unforgiving. He needs to know I love him, despite all of it, I still love him. He needs to know he is loved, loved by Jesus most of all, forgiven, clean, made new.

I’m going to call your brother. He is going to help communicate this message to your dad. He will keep him in line up there while I advocate for you here.

A few days and several nightmares later, I am lost in a sea of confusion once more.

What if he died? What if I never tell him that I love him or that I forgive him or that Christ can make him new? Will he know it? What if I never talk to my gene-giver again? What if the pain I cause—what if the pain is too great it kills him? His heart is already weak. What if I am the cause of his death?

The doubts begin to fester again, all bubbly and infectious. Tumbling around in my brain hours into the darkness. Do I really trust the one I barely know, the one beneath whom I have submitted my heart, the one who tells me no, even when I cry?

Submission is a challenge, a hard thing to learn. Especially when you have never had to. Especially when you’ve been hurt. Deeply. Especially when he’s a man. Especially when men have often hurt you. Especially when you already have it all figured out. Especially when you think you can save the world. Especially when you befriend pride intimately. Especially when you’re scared. 

Then they remind me, this man and wife whose home I dwell inside, they bring me back to reality. She tells me he might die—it could happen. But it is not going to be your fault when it does. You have to stop letting your thoughts go there. He tells me I need to trust him, that he is protecting me, that it is for my good. She tells me it was not my fault—but that I cannot save him. He tells me that I am prideful to think otherwise. She tells me I am just going to have to silence my doubts and chose to submit, no matter what. He tells me it is his head on the line before a holy God, not mine.  She tells me if I don’t start learning this now, marriage is going to be a mess. The Holy Spirit reminds me that I choose this—that I chose submission. I still have a choice—I have to keep choosing it. For my future, I have to get this down.

For this is how the holy women who hoped in God used to adorn themselves, by submitting to their own husbands, as Sarah obeyed Abraham, calling him lord. And you are her children, if you do good and do not fear anything that is frightening. −1 Peter 3:5-6

The truth is I still want to run away—and sometimes I do, in my head. I still don’t want to let my eyes meet his at times. I still get this ugly feeling that slithers its way up my body every time the subject arises. I still don’t feel like trusting him most days. I circle around and around in my brain for hours a day, cycling through the doubts and the what-ifs. I epitomize insanity

I did not choose what was to come of the one whose genes I bear. I did not choose him. Yet, the Lord knew. He also knew one day I would walk on the path He had paved through the ruble & ashes—he knew from day one I would end up here, in this place with a family of twelve, with this fear, with this daddy pursuing me. He also knew He would birth something deeper, this desire to submit to authority, this desire to learn my role as a woman, as a daughter, as a future wife and mum. And only He knows why—only He knows what is to come of this trying season. As the control continues slipping through my grasp, all I can do is choose Christ—freedom—joy—obedience—submission. All I can do is humbly say yes, I trust you.

It’s better this way, he tells me. I want to take the burden from you—you have to chose to let me. The decision has been made—it’s done. Quit picking it back up! You are safe. Rest in my protection. Please, just rest. Stop thinking. CHOSE to trust me. I am not him. I am for you, daughter, now rest. You are not in this alone. Trust me.

But I want you to understand that the head of every man is Christ, the head of a wife[a] is her husband, and the head of Christ is God. −1 Cor. 11:3

Submit yourselves therefore to God. Resist the devil and he will flee from you. -James 4:7

No comments:

Post a Comment