Sunday Shortie: Learning Communion’s Song

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Sunday Shortie,  written last week and squirreled away. Actually felt a little too naked at that moment to share. Today seems quite appropriate.

 

Thankfulness crops up in the oddest moments.

I spent the last hour trying to dredge up a little dirt. I write best annoyed. I’ve spent most of my adult years annoyed. I’m pretty dadgum funny when I’m annoyed.

Today I am not. Today I have nothing.

Now that is funny.

Never Too Old To Learn

Generally, the writing process goes something like this: I close my eyes and poke around until I find a splinter of a feeling. I probe the area, wince and squeal a little, look to heaven and throw up a few dadgumits at finding I’m not quite so whole as I’d hoped.

The words pour out all on their own, a birthing of sorts, filled with mess and confusion. Some days it feels like swimming  in the septic tank.

I edit and sculpt, then back off a bit. While I may feel completely naked dancing around out here in the light, I’m aware some things need covering just the same. Some stories are best told face to face. Takes time to evaluate just how much light will heal a wound and how much will sear the skin right off. You wouldn’t believe the stuff that hits the trash bin.

A few more moments in prayer, a final adjustment or two, then a confirmed coward hits the publish button.

And We Wait. . .

I agonize, more or less depending on how many layers are lying on the floor. Will anyone understand this mess of my days? Agonizing memories swarm the surface, followed by the litany of former friends passing judgment in the name of God. I hear their words fresh all over.

Night comes and I cry quiet into my pillow so the littles don’t hear, reliving the original pain and wondering if this offering of blood really matters and can I please go back to my box under the bridge now please-and-thank you.

Then the comments come in. I feel the soothing oil pour over these old wounds.  I reread the article once more, just to make sure I truly hear the voice of those gracious enough to share before hitting reply. The pain recedes almost without notice and—

Stops.

Fancy That

I’ve written as long as I can remember.  I do not ever recall this freedom before.  Perhaps the soul grinding work of uncovering the truths my heart wants to hide combines somehow with the corroboration of those who’ve walked this way already and the encouragement of those a few steps behind. I don’t know but I can tell you, something’s different.

So many years of isolation. Such a shame. I’m reminded we need one another. Each one of you, each visitor here brings their gifts to the party

Teachers teach. They head into the wasteland of all the nonsense assaulting our ears and bring meat to the table, words of life that ring with authenticity.

Encouragers encourage. They hit that reply button and type lovely things that make sore hearts sing again and middle age bloggers cry a little.

Storytellers share. A bit of their life, here and there, confirming our shared reality with tales from the frontlines. Our hearts blend together and we recognize truth together.

And those struggling to get through the next day do what we do best. We recognize our weakness. We bring our shattered hearts to the table and seek the Face of God.

Then altogether, we lift our broken bread to heaven and pass it round.

Such a Gift

When I started writing, I thought I’d produce an infinite number of posts. After all, with so many years wallowing, there must be thousands of things to say leading to the production of hundreds of highly annoyed online outbursts. But a strange thing happened on the way to the graveyard.

God is healing me through the process. I think we just may be seeing the Body of Christ functioning as the Good Lord intended. For that, I must thank each one of you. In your comments and emails, I recognize the gifts of God’s Spirit operating.

There’s life in this place.

It’s been a long time coming.

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10 responses »

  1. Now here is an irony. Preachers, like myself, generally have bad-mouthed the cyber-church. I think there is a place for that criticism – people staying home on the Lord’s Day rather than gathering together with the body of Christ, just for convenience sake. That’s no good. Even if you tithe by hitting the paypal button. Still just doesn’t get it.

    BUT, and this is odd – the kind of sharing and fellowship that goes on in some places at www, like here, sure excels what happens at so many church buildings each Sunday. So, the cyber-church isn’t all bad. It has its place. Sometimes, for now, it seems that it often turns out to be the only church many abuse victims have, for numbers of reasons.

    • Quite surprised. I think it may have more to do with the like-minded nature of those who are gathering (virtually speaking.) In some cases, I’ve noticed this in real life with those who understand and are able to comfort one another. But I’m thinking we’re just so spread out right now.

      • Spread out, and yet still finding each other. If we press on in this work, we may end up finding there are more in our own communities than we think. It is the great Dispersion – 1 Peter 1:1-2 Peter, an apostle of Jesus Christ, To those who are elect exiles of the dispersion in Pontus, Galatia, Cappadocia, Asia, and Bithynia, (2) according to the foreknowledge of God the Father, in the sanctification of the Spirit, for obedience to Jesus Christ and for sprinkling with his blood: May grace and peace be multiplied to you.

      • You know Jeff, that brings up an excellent point. How *do* you find the local like-minded survivor? Most that I’ve met aren’t owning up to anything– they’ve moved on and hidden out, not telling their stories.

    • You know that the Bible says that if we as human beings didn’t praise God, Whom we were created to praise, that even rocks would do so? Along the same lines, it’s not really a stretch to think that if the local church fails to minister to the abandoned and unloved, that God will raise up those willing to do so — cyber-ly or otherwise.

      And we get just as much from comforting or saying, “you go, girl!” as we do from being on the receiving end… and in my case, as someone more or less abandoned for determining to divorce her abuser, this fellowship and offering encouragement and comfort is the sweet song that I lift up to God, now that I no longer sing and play the piano at my local church.

      Another loss for those in the local body who have substituted being judgmental for being discerning, because this down and dirty, honest, naked “virtual” fellowship is very, very real.

      Elizabeth Kraus

      • “Another loss for those in the local body who have substituted being judgmental for being discerning, because this down and dirty, honest, naked “virtual” fellowship is very, very real.”

        It is indeed. I got tired of playing church a long time ago. Once you become truly hungry, nothing but the Lord Himself and His presence will satisfy.

        They don’t know what they’re missing.

      • Elizabeth – hmmm…. we should be able to fit in a pianist position here somewhere, shouldn’t we? Music starts as soon as the readers open the blog:) Maybe Ida Mae can check that out.

      • LOL– we’ll have to find a techie survivor who knows WordPress but, given the statistics of abuse, I think it’s doable 🙂

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