I help people and I hurt people. First I help them, really go out of my way for them, genuinely care about them. Then, when they like me and trust me, I let them down. I don't think I mean to. But after being there for them until they count on me, I'm--not. To the degree that I was a rock for them, encouraged them, supported them, blessed them, I lose interest or I can't anymore. Then I lacerate them with words or just walk away. Because we have developed a relationship, it hurts them much worse than it would have otherwise.
I warned Jerry I was like that. I told him he'd be sorry if he fell in love with me, if he married me. I warned him I would hurt him. But he did anyway. And I have. Just like I hurt my first husband.
I am cruel and mean-spirited. I don't seem so at first. Even I don't believe I am--at first. I told Jerry about a dream I had that hadn't materialized, a dream that was impossible to realize now. He worked hard, in secret, and made it happen. I was thrilled, I thanked him profusely and sincerely, told him how amazing he was. But the day came when I turned on him and said it hadn't worked after all. It had been a lot of work for me and gotten my hopes up and nothing came of it; I wished he'd never interfered and it was all his fault.
Although he always tells me, "There's nothing to forgive," you can't undo something like that.
My response to wounding people so deeply, against my own desire, is to want to cease to exist. I don't think I should never have been born, exactly. I just wish I could become a ghost, inaudible, invisible, cease existing. I am expendable. If I never go out of the house, out of the bedroom, if I don't talk to anyone, maybe it will be as if I don't exist. Maybe if I don't move and barely breathe. But Jerry is in the house. Jerry is in the bedroom. I can never be that invisible.
Paradoxically, my trying hurts him worse. When I explain that it would solve everything if I just removed myself from the situation, disappear from his life so he can recover and go on with it, it wounds him more. He has even wept over it. That makes me crazy. And so, so guilty, like a knife in my gut.
If only they would listen when I warn them at the very beginning, This won't be good for you. You'll be sorry you were drawn in to loving and trusting me. And it will be a Catch-22 for me because I cannot extricate myself from your life without destroying you.
There's no way out that doesn't hurt them worse.
Saturday, December 1, 2012
"I've got you."
I haven't been all right today. No sense of purpose, no motivation, just a heaviness, a terrible, empty hurt that isn't physical. I want to go Home.
With an effort, I stir myself to show interest in something other than me. "Are you all right?" I ask Jerry.
"I'm fine," he says, squeezing my hand cheerfully. "I've got you."
After a minute I ask, "Do you always say that because you really are fine or because you want me to think you are?"
"When I have you, I'm fine. When I don't have you, I'm not fine."
I consider that. "How can having me make you fine?"
"What do you mean?"
"Your having me is like a man in the middle of the ocean having nothing but an inner tube with a hole in it."
"How are you like an inner tube with a hole in it?"
"No one can lean on it. It will take you down."
"You don't take me down," he says.
But I know better.
With an effort, I stir myself to show interest in something other than me. "Are you all right?" I ask Jerry.
"I'm fine," he says, squeezing my hand cheerfully. "I've got you."
After a minute I ask, "Do you always say that because you really are fine or because you want me to think you are?"
"When I have you, I'm fine. When I don't have you, I'm not fine."
I consider that. "How can having me make you fine?"
"What do you mean?"
"Your having me is like a man in the middle of the ocean having nothing but an inner tube with a hole in it."
"How are you like an inner tube with a hole in it?"
"No one can lean on it. It will take you down."
"You don't take me down," he says.
But I know better.
Analogy
We were sitting at a long craft table in a kind of warehouse, which was lined with shelves full of objects one could paint or decorate. We were visiting with family while the children played on equipment in an adjoining room and there was a woman we didn't know sitting near us. I think she said her name was Susan. As we talked, a woman approached Susan, holding in both hands a battered shoe box bound with masking tape.
She held it out, saying, "Do you think these are too fragile to--" The box slipped from her hands and hit the floor with the crash of things smashing to smithereens.
Stunned, none of us moved--until the woman who had dropped the box and a man somewhere behind her began laughing uproariously. Susan joined them.
It was all a practical joke. We were filled in on the back story. Susan is a glass-blower and makes things with molten glass. She needed to take a lot of her stuff home and the couple, known pranksters, had offered to help her pack it up. After one missed heartbeat, Susan knew the box held nothing of significance, nothing but junk.
The battered box bothered me more than it did Susan. I keep remembering it and identifying with it. I am like that ugly box all taped together, all the parts of me inside now, no longer separate. When we fall we fall as one unit. Although we sound as if we are smashing to smithereens, we are actually already smashed. There is nothing of significance inside, nothing but junk.
She held it out, saying, "Do you think these are too fragile to--" The box slipped from her hands and hit the floor with the crash of things smashing to smithereens.
Stunned, none of us moved--until the woman who had dropped the box and a man somewhere behind her began laughing uproariously. Susan joined them.
It was all a practical joke. We were filled in on the back story. Susan is a glass-blower and makes things with molten glass. She needed to take a lot of her stuff home and the couple, known pranksters, had offered to help her pack it up. After one missed heartbeat, Susan knew the box held nothing of significance, nothing but junk.
The battered box bothered me more than it did Susan. I keep remembering it and identifying with it. I am like that ugly box all taped together, all the parts of me inside now, no longer separate. When we fall we fall as one unit. Although we sound as if we are smashing to smithereens, we are actually already smashed. There is nothing of significance inside, nothing but junk.
Tuesday, November 27, 2012
Too many deaths, too many losses
I think I need to get back on my anti-depressant. I'm crying all the time.
It isn't just the death of my first husband ten years ago. It's the death of 16 close friends, casual friends, and extended family members--or family members of friends--this year. It's the loss of our church family, the new pastor's wife telling us (long-time members), "You are NOT WELCOME here!" on New Years Day. It's the betrayal two days ago by my sister-in-law.
It isn't just the death of my first husband ten years ago. It's the death of 16 close friends, casual friends, and extended family members--or family members of friends--this year. It's the loss of our church family, the new pastor's wife telling us (long-time members), "You are NOT WELCOME here!" on New Years Day. It's the betrayal two days ago by my sister-in-law.
Monday, November 26, 2012
Draining
I had known it for weeks. There was a great grief welling up inside me, bulging up toward the surface, determined to burst. But I didn't know what it was about.
On November 5 I read a quote on a friend's blog: "When a widow prepares her heart to move forward, whether she means to or not, her mind begins to remember the worst things about her husband. It's a way of making it easier, like starting a fight before a goodbye."
Three days later the pain was lanced and drained, boiling over in a two-hour torrent. It was the deferred grief over the death of my first husband to brain cancer. The last thing unaffected by his paralysis was his strong left hand. Less than two years after losing him, I had lunch with a widower who extended both hands, cupped, across the table to me so he could say grace. I grasped them as I would a life preserver, knowing that by doing so I was committing myself to him forever. I was ravenous to be loved again, in every way. I thought (me, a spiritually mature, chaste Christian woman!), "I don't know a thing about him but hey, if it doesn't work out I can get a divorce."
Two weeks later we were engaged. (What took you so long? I wondered.) One day under three months from that first date we were married. He assured me if I wasn't through grieving, he would grieve with me. But how could I do that to him? So I had packed the unfinished sadness away.
Instead, I only mentioned to him the bad things about my first husband, like his frustration and eventual anger over my frigidity, my terror of s*x. He had finally told me (a woman whose father had made her feel like a slut, a woman barely able to respond to s*xual overtures, much less intitate them!), "I don't even want to hold or snuggle with you in bed. It makes me want you. If you want s*x, come get it." Ouch. He never believed I actually wanted it, needed it as much as he did.
I have often pictured him in heaven, responding in astonishment to the news that his wife is able to give herself freely to her second husband, even enjoy s*x: "Jessica?"
I would tell my new husband that I hadn't wanted to marry again because the old one had persuaded me no other man would put up with me. I would tell my new husband the things he does better than the old one. There were multitudes of positive things about the old one but I hadn't let myself remember them and now I knew why.
I had been starting a fight before the final goodbye.
Now I know why there are days, despite life with a husband I still consider perfect after 8-1/2 years, when all I do is sit up in bed and weep.
On November 8, I poured it out to G. for two soggy hours: He was a good man. I had forgotten that! He loved me. He provided for me, cherished me and tried with all his might, poor sod, to understand me. We had wonderful times together, close, fun times. And I miss him.
(* is to avoid predators.)
On November 5 I read a quote on a friend's blog: "When a widow prepares her heart to move forward, whether she means to or not, her mind begins to remember the worst things about her husband. It's a way of making it easier, like starting a fight before a goodbye."
Three days later the pain was lanced and drained, boiling over in a two-hour torrent. It was the deferred grief over the death of my first husband to brain cancer. The last thing unaffected by his paralysis was his strong left hand. Less than two years after losing him, I had lunch with a widower who extended both hands, cupped, across the table to me so he could say grace. I grasped them as I would a life preserver, knowing that by doing so I was committing myself to him forever. I was ravenous to be loved again, in every way. I thought (me, a spiritually mature, chaste Christian woman!), "I don't know a thing about him but hey, if it doesn't work out I can get a divorce."
Two weeks later we were engaged. (What took you so long? I wondered.) One day under three months from that first date we were married. He assured me if I wasn't through grieving, he would grieve with me. But how could I do that to him? So I had packed the unfinished sadness away.
Instead, I only mentioned to him the bad things about my first husband, like his frustration and eventual anger over my frigidity, my terror of s*x. He had finally told me (a woman whose father had made her feel like a slut, a woman barely able to respond to s*xual overtures, much less intitate them!), "I don't even want to hold or snuggle with you in bed. It makes me want you. If you want s*x, come get it." Ouch. He never believed I actually wanted it, needed it as much as he did.
I have often pictured him in heaven, responding in astonishment to the news that his wife is able to give herself freely to her second husband, even enjoy s*x: "Jessica?"
I would tell my new husband that I hadn't wanted to marry again because the old one had persuaded me no other man would put up with me. I would tell my new husband the things he does better than the old one. There were multitudes of positive things about the old one but I hadn't let myself remember them and now I knew why.
I had been starting a fight before the final goodbye.
Now I know why there are days, despite life with a husband I still consider perfect after 8-1/2 years, when all I do is sit up in bed and weep.
On November 8, I poured it out to G. for two soggy hours: He was a good man. I had forgotten that! He loved me. He provided for me, cherished me and tried with all his might, poor sod, to understand me. We had wonderful times together, close, fun times. And I miss him.
(* is to avoid predators.)
Overlay
All this time I was integrating, guess what? The integration was being accomplished by a part of me we call the "reporter." My reporter self was organizing everyone inside--or just sweeping them under a rug and announcing us "fixed."
So this time "Reporter/Interpreter Self" came out and complained that he (yes, he) runs the whole show and everyone inside resents him for it, resents his control and his speaking for them, even though his--my--motives were pure. I was just trying to protect them.
"I have to juggle it all," he said. "The internal system is like the solar system, with its orbits and speeds. My job is to hold all the dark stuff. I carry grief."
Do I have the memories? (I'm switching from being him and not being him. Sorry for the confusion.) "No, just the feelings. The memories are walled off."
"Then Jesus comes into the mix," RS explained, "and He's trying to protect and help everyone. I don't know how to adjust to keep the internal balance. He'll have a gravitational influence and will want to run the whole thing. I don't know how that will work."
He said he is the only one left except for the Original Self.
Here my notes say, "Make bread--add dirt and rocks. He takes it and makes a perfect loaf of bread." Was I the one making bread, adding dirt and rocks? Is Jesus the one who takes the mess and turns it into bread? What did that have to do with anything?
G: He cares about (you?). Such a noble and important job. You've done well.
"All that is negative, bad, and dark, I take on," I say. "I don't like this role but somebody has to do the dirty work. I'm Eeyore, gloomy and down on himself. I can only have the balloon after it's popped.
"Maybe I could just not exist. Maybe I could pop, too. If I'm just an alter, maybe I can be conscious but not involved." Then, "I want to go home."
G: "My burden is light. Come to Me, all you who are heavy-laden and I will give you rest."
"I don't want to be the one to make everyone else look good. I'm the bad one. I want to fade away and die."
G: He brings more life, not less. There may need to be a healing of the memories others hold. There is more the living God want to do just for you. It's hard for you to trust Him with your decision-making and vigilance."
"We're not ready to integrate. Yet in almost every dream I've had for months, I am lost and trying to find my way home. I am in a huge college, trying to find my way to my classroom. I am late for a test for which I have not studied. Or I am at a resort, maybe at a conference or women's retreat. I'm on my way to dinner but I have to leave the others to go back to my room to get something. I finally give up looking for my room but in the meantime I have missed dinner. Or I'm trying to find my way back to Jerry. Always lost, always trying to get home."
G. is talking to me, saying things about "embracing all of you, accepting all." A dust cloud of confusion has stirred up around my mind. I can hear what he is saying, he is using words and phrases I know, but I cannot make sense out of any of it.
(October 25, 2012)
So this time "Reporter/Interpreter Self" came out and complained that he (yes, he) runs the whole show and everyone inside resents him for it, resents his control and his speaking for them, even though his--my--motives were pure. I was just trying to protect them.
"I have to juggle it all," he said. "The internal system is like the solar system, with its orbits and speeds. My job is to hold all the dark stuff. I carry grief."
Do I have the memories? (I'm switching from being him and not being him. Sorry for the confusion.) "No, just the feelings. The memories are walled off."
"Then Jesus comes into the mix," RS explained, "and He's trying to protect and help everyone. I don't know how to adjust to keep the internal balance. He'll have a gravitational influence and will want to run the whole thing. I don't know how that will work."
He said he is the only one left except for the Original Self.
Here my notes say, "Make bread--add dirt and rocks. He takes it and makes a perfect loaf of bread." Was I the one making bread, adding dirt and rocks? Is Jesus the one who takes the mess and turns it into bread? What did that have to do with anything?
G: He cares about (you?). Such a noble and important job. You've done well.
"All that is negative, bad, and dark, I take on," I say. "I don't like this role but somebody has to do the dirty work. I'm Eeyore, gloomy and down on himself. I can only have the balloon after it's popped.
"Maybe I could just not exist. Maybe I could pop, too. If I'm just an alter, maybe I can be conscious but not involved." Then, "I want to go home."
G: "My burden is light. Come to Me, all you who are heavy-laden and I will give you rest."
"I don't want to be the one to make everyone else look good. I'm the bad one. I want to fade away and die."
G: He brings more life, not less. There may need to be a healing of the memories others hold. There is more the living God want to do just for you. It's hard for you to trust Him with your decision-making and vigilance."
"We're not ready to integrate. Yet in almost every dream I've had for months, I am lost and trying to find my way home. I am in a huge college, trying to find my way to my classroom. I am late for a test for which I have not studied. Or I am at a resort, maybe at a conference or women's retreat. I'm on my way to dinner but I have to leave the others to go back to my room to get something. I finally give up looking for my room but in the meantime I have missed dinner. Or I'm trying to find my way back to Jerry. Always lost, always trying to get home."
G. is talking to me, saying things about "embracing all of you, accepting all." A dust cloud of confusion has stirred up around my mind. I can hear what he is saying, he is using words and phrases I know, but I cannot make sense out of any of it.
(October 25, 2012)
This is what it feels is happening
You'd think that would have done it. The Shepherd brings the little lost lamb home. Happy ending.
But I wake up in tears almost every morning.
Here's what it feels like. It feels like the dissociative barriers are down. It feels like there are no parts walled off or left outside. It's all just me.
I used to be either/or. Either depressed or anxious or competent and confident. I wasn't aware of other paradigms.
Now I am both/all/and. We are--I am--co-conscious. It's all me. Depressed and anxious--but whatever happened to competence and confidence? The walls were there for a reason, to enable me to function. Now functioning is beyond me. If the intolerable conflicts caused by opposing beliefs have been resolved, why am I non-functioning?
I asked G, "Is it possible I'm whole and I'm just having the kinds of grief, loss, sadness, worry, fears that normal people have? Is that it?"
"Don't decide for yourself what this looks like," G says. "Just see what remains." "Don't try to control parts, let it reveal itself in its own time." "Just enjoy discovering, synchronizing, finding dissociative barriers," 'Let Jesus find, bring things up," "Don't try to orchestrate healing--let it come to you, take what the system offers," "Let Christ do the healing through the indwelling Spirit," "Be in 'receive' mode."
Can I cry while I do all that?
(October 25, 2012)
But I wake up in tears almost every morning.
Here's what it feels like. It feels like the dissociative barriers are down. It feels like there are no parts walled off or left outside. It's all just me.
I used to be either/or. Either depressed or anxious or competent and confident. I wasn't aware of other paradigms.
Now I am both/all/and. We are--I am--co-conscious. It's all me. Depressed and anxious--but whatever happened to competence and confidence? The walls were there for a reason, to enable me to function. Now functioning is beyond me. If the intolerable conflicts caused by opposing beliefs have been resolved, why am I non-functioning?
I asked G, "Is it possible I'm whole and I'm just having the kinds of grief, loss, sadness, worry, fears that normal people have? Is that it?"
"Don't decide for yourself what this looks like," G says. "Just see what remains." "Don't try to control parts, let it reveal itself in its own time." "Just enjoy discovering, synchronizing, finding dissociative barriers," 'Let Jesus find, bring things up," "Don't try to orchestrate healing--let it come to you, take what the system offers," "Let Christ do the healing through the indwelling Spirit," "Be in 'receive' mode."
Can I cry while I do all that?
(October 25, 2012)
Anxiety, depression, a sense of doom.
G opened in prayer for any identities, inner conflicts, lie messages to be exposed and come to the front. "I bless you with a sense of joy and peace of the living God," he ended.
"I am surrounded with joy," I said dismally, "and can't take it in. I am in prison, I am shackled. I am poison to other people. I destroy them. My life is filled with love and joy but I can't connect to it. I have to be sober, proper, serious, narrow--. I don't have a right to joy."
"Ask God what is blocking it."
"I'm getting words like 'proper,' 'critic,' 'black clothes,' 'Puritan,' 'bonnet,' and 'pinched nose.' It may be a religious or legalistic spirit. My ancestors on my mother's side were Puritans."
G quoted Scripture: "The letter of the law brings death."
"We think we are more righteous, more vigilant ferreting out moral error than Christ. In His name, I renounce that! I renounce self-flagellation and self-condemnation--the gloomy despair of my great-grandmother as a child, writing her journal confessing how evil (and how depressed) she always was.
"Lord, you hand me bread to give others," I continued, "and I don't keep any for myself, even though there is plenty. I want to come home. I want to find my way home."
I told G about the vision I had years ago of Jesus giving a party for me. There was a long table with chairs around it. I could sit anywhere I liked and I could choose anyone I wanted to sit in the chairs. I chose to sit at one end. I had Jesus sit at the other. I told Him, "I'd like DK to be there. Not right beside me. A few chairs down." All the other chairs remained empty.
And the food? He asked.
"Steak. No, spaghetti."
Both steak and spaghetti appeared on the table--then, in response to my indecision, every other kind of food I like, lots of it. The table was covered with steaming dishes.
And presents?
Now there were packages of all shapes and sizes around the food, piled higher and higher until--
"NO!" I had cried out in my vision. I got out of my chair, ran to the other end of the table and in tears threw my arms around His neck. "I ONLY WANT YOU!"
After describing this to G, I asked him, "Why do I reject myself when He doesn't reject me? I've shoved that hungry part of myself away. Why do I do that? Where did I get that message? I know it's because I'm afraid. Even if He offers me bread, I see myself, head hanging down, shaking it and saying, 'I can't. I can't.' Others are hungrier. I already have so much. I don't have a right to eat when they're dying from hunger. The food won't get to them. It will block their getting it.
What is the lie? "It's something about His sovereignty. We give to organizations that feed them but it's never enough! It doesn't seem fair. My depriving myself doesn't help them and my having enough (plenty) doesn't help them either."
What is the truth? G nailed it: "The poor you will have with you always."
"That's right, isn't it? Jesus said so."
G: There are not enough good things to go around--good jobs, water, food, housing. That's the way the world is designed this side of heaven. It's idealistic to believe resources can be more equitable--because of greed and human sinfulness. Only in the fullness of the kingdom will there be enough for everyone.
"That's true. I can pray for them. I can give money. But I can never feed them all, right? I can't be God. . . I can't understand why He's allowed that. But He does all things well. My depriving myself only makes Him sad. He wants everyone happy. If I let myself be happy at least there will be one more person happy."
G: I can pray. I can't be God. He has allowed it. I must accept it. He knows what He's doing.
"If it's true that there are millions who have none of the good things we have--and they're still going to hell, that's not fair."
G: Does He say it's fair?
"No, but He says it will ultimately be fair."
G: Where are your feelings coming from?
"I was like that even before I was a Christian. I heard the gospel and I thought, I have to let everyone else go through the door, urge them to, before I can go in--before I will go in.
"I feel like I don't have a right to call out for my mother in the night. Daddy tells her to let me cry. She picked me up once as a baby and shook me hard, in anger. 'Be quiet! BE QUIET!' (Not 'Don't cry!" That would have programmed me differently.)
"I am distributing food. Jesus breaks the bread and hands me chunk after chunk and I pass it on. If I stopped long enough to stuff a little of it in my own mouth I would choke on it. Why? Because it's not meant for me.
Others are hungrier than I am. I can wait. I want my mother but she is helping all my 'little friends,' as my grandmother called them. They all need her. I have 'ticket #1' for her attention, I know that. I don't tell myself I can't have her attention, I tell myself I can wait. My neediness is not as great as theirs and I choose to let them go ahead of me. Someday it will be my turn.
"But it never is.
"On the boat [I grew up on] my mother gave any extra food, the leftovers, to the men: my dad, brother and the three crewmen. I remember her asking who wanted thirds of spaghetti. I was still hungry, I hadn't even had seconds, I would have said yes. But she wasn't asking me. I don't deserve things men have a right to. I say 'It's okay, it's okay' when it's really not. It's okay that I don't get enough. I'm sad, I'm hungry. I feel left out."
"Ask the Lord if it's okay."
I ask and report, "He says, It's not okay. He says It wasn't okay that 99 sheep were happy. I went after the one that was unhappy. So I'm the little lost lamb? Even if it's my fault I got lost? Can you reach down that far, Lord? I'd like You to come get me if You don't mind. I'd like to be rescued.Will the other sheep mind if You leave them? Will they resent me?" I wait, listening. Then, "He says I can be in both places at once.
"Wow."
G (our time is up): I bless you, every fiber of your being, with an acceptance of the truth. God says, I have chosen you. I have rescued you. I have bought you out of the slave market, out of the kingdom of darkness, I have given you My name and character, My family. You are co-heirs with My son. I bless you with a profound sense of your value. Not only do you not deserve punishment, He was punished for you. He became sin for us. He took on Himself the wrath of God. There is no condemnation, no shame, blame, or guilt.
(Session of October 11? My dates seem confused.)
G opened in prayer for any identities, inner conflicts, lie messages to be exposed and come to the front. "I bless you with a sense of joy and peace of the living God," he ended.
"I am surrounded with joy," I said dismally, "and can't take it in. I am in prison, I am shackled. I am poison to other people. I destroy them. My life is filled with love and joy but I can't connect to it. I have to be sober, proper, serious, narrow--. I don't have a right to joy."
"Ask God what is blocking it."
"I'm getting words like 'proper,' 'critic,' 'black clothes,' 'Puritan,' 'bonnet,' and 'pinched nose.' It may be a religious or legalistic spirit. My ancestors on my mother's side were Puritans."
G quoted Scripture: "The letter of the law brings death."
"We think we are more righteous, more vigilant ferreting out moral error than Christ. In His name, I renounce that! I renounce self-flagellation and self-condemnation--the gloomy despair of my great-grandmother as a child, writing her journal confessing how evil (and how depressed) she always was.
"Lord, you hand me bread to give others," I continued, "and I don't keep any for myself, even though there is plenty. I want to come home. I want to find my way home."
I told G about the vision I had years ago of Jesus giving a party for me. There was a long table with chairs around it. I could sit anywhere I liked and I could choose anyone I wanted to sit in the chairs. I chose to sit at one end. I had Jesus sit at the other. I told Him, "I'd like DK to be there. Not right beside me. A few chairs down." All the other chairs remained empty.
And the food? He asked.
"Steak. No, spaghetti."
Both steak and spaghetti appeared on the table--then, in response to my indecision, every other kind of food I like, lots of it. The table was covered with steaming dishes.
And presents?
Now there were packages of all shapes and sizes around the food, piled higher and higher until--
"NO!" I had cried out in my vision. I got out of my chair, ran to the other end of the table and in tears threw my arms around His neck. "I ONLY WANT YOU!"
After describing this to G, I asked him, "Why do I reject myself when He doesn't reject me? I've shoved that hungry part of myself away. Why do I do that? Where did I get that message? I know it's because I'm afraid. Even if He offers me bread, I see myself, head hanging down, shaking it and saying, 'I can't. I can't.' Others are hungrier. I already have so much. I don't have a right to eat when they're dying from hunger. The food won't get to them. It will block their getting it.
What is the lie? "It's something about His sovereignty. We give to organizations that feed them but it's never enough! It doesn't seem fair. My depriving myself doesn't help them and my having enough (plenty) doesn't help them either."
What is the truth? G nailed it: "The poor you will have with you always."
"That's right, isn't it? Jesus said so."
G: There are not enough good things to go around--good jobs, water, food, housing. That's the way the world is designed this side of heaven. It's idealistic to believe resources can be more equitable--because of greed and human sinfulness. Only in the fullness of the kingdom will there be enough for everyone.
"That's true. I can pray for them. I can give money. But I can never feed them all, right? I can't be God. . . I can't understand why He's allowed that. But He does all things well. My depriving myself only makes Him sad. He wants everyone happy. If I let myself be happy at least there will be one more person happy."
G: I can pray. I can't be God. He has allowed it. I must accept it. He knows what He's doing.
"If it's true that there are millions who have none of the good things we have--and they're still going to hell, that's not fair."
G: Does He say it's fair?
"No, but He says it will ultimately be fair."
G: Where are your feelings coming from?
"I was like that even before I was a Christian. I heard the gospel and I thought, I have to let everyone else go through the door, urge them to, before I can go in--before I will go in.
"I feel like I don't have a right to call out for my mother in the night. Daddy tells her to let me cry. She picked me up once as a baby and shook me hard, in anger. 'Be quiet! BE QUIET!' (Not 'Don't cry!" That would have programmed me differently.)
"I am distributing food. Jesus breaks the bread and hands me chunk after chunk and I pass it on. If I stopped long enough to stuff a little of it in my own mouth I would choke on it. Why? Because it's not meant for me.
Others are hungrier than I am. I can wait. I want my mother but she is helping all my 'little friends,' as my grandmother called them. They all need her. I have 'ticket #1' for her attention, I know that. I don't tell myself I can't have her attention, I tell myself I can wait. My neediness is not as great as theirs and I choose to let them go ahead of me. Someday it will be my turn.
"But it never is.
"On the boat [I grew up on] my mother gave any extra food, the leftovers, to the men: my dad, brother and the three crewmen. I remember her asking who wanted thirds of spaghetti. I was still hungry, I hadn't even had seconds, I would have said yes. But she wasn't asking me. I don't deserve things men have a right to. I say 'It's okay, it's okay' when it's really not. It's okay that I don't get enough. I'm sad, I'm hungry. I feel left out."
"Ask the Lord if it's okay."
I ask and report, "He says, It's not okay. He says It wasn't okay that 99 sheep were happy. I went after the one that was unhappy. So I'm the little lost lamb? Even if it's my fault I got lost? Can you reach down that far, Lord? I'd like You to come get me if You don't mind. I'd like to be rescued.Will the other sheep mind if You leave them? Will they resent me?" I wait, listening. Then, "He says I can be in both places at once.
"Wow."
G (our time is up): I bless you, every fiber of your being, with an acceptance of the truth. God says, I have chosen you. I have rescued you. I have bought you out of the slave market, out of the kingdom of darkness, I have given you My name and character, My family. You are co-heirs with My son. I bless you with a profound sense of your value. Not only do you not deserve punishment, He was punished for you. He became sin for us. He took on Himself the wrath of God. There is no condemnation, no shame, blame, or guilt.
(Session of October 11? My dates seem confused.)
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