Some memories don’t visit you but cement themselves as permanent landmarks in your mind.
Like the one formed when my good friend, the one with much older kids, swings by for a visit when the house looks like we’ve been livin’ large and cleanin’ little. And if you define “livin’ large” as surviving a house full of sick little people, then we have. Answering the doorbell, I shrug off the state of the house knowing my friend is no stranger to this stage of life.
As I walk toward the door, I look down at my baby girl asleep in my arms, body warm and worn out from a persistent virus. I open the door with one hand and smile, cock my head to quietly welcome my friend inside. Shutting the door behind her, I move to the sofa and clear off a mound of plastic dinosaurs so we can sit. We chat quietly for five minutes when James and Ethan, finally fever-free, run hollering into the room. My eyebrows furrow and I Shhh! them harshly, pointing to their sister. The baby wakes and I sigh exasperated. Swaying with my baby in my arms, I risk a see-through heart and confess,
“Ya know, some days with little ones are just so hard.”
I smooth hair out of my daughter’s eyes, and I’m blind to the forthcoming response.
“Well, you’re the ones who decided to have kids. What did you expect?”
I stare at her as her words ricochet off the walls and hit my heart. I hear the message loud and clear,
Quit whining, wimp.
That’ll teach you to be vulnerable, I say to myself.
My mouth shuts and the walls of my heart thicken because that’s what happens when you get a little too real with unsafe people. Instead of understanding and supporting, they hand you the bricks and cement and help you fashion a false exterior that looks like I’m fine! and Everything’s great! and Nope, I don’t need any help at all.
I hold my sick baby girl close to my hurting heart. My friend leaves but her words linger and I’m left wondering what to do with them all.
I open up Scripture and read the psalmist’s words about days with evening shadows and withering grass, yet God’s compassion and goodness remain (Psalm 102).
I say the words out loud: There’s nothing wrong with a lament as long as I remember that when standing in hard times, God’s goodness stands stronger.
Early January comes in the wake of Christmas breakfasts and holiday parties with family and friends, and sometimes the memories we unwrap are hard voices saying our difficulties don’t matter. And when I think about how I’ve surely been one of the hard voices to another, my heart hurts.
Sister, if you risked a little vulnerability and the results weren’t pretty, I’m so sorry. Don’t see it as confirmation that you’re a hot mess; see it as the realization that the person you chose to share with probably isn’t safe. Remember our hearts are like the Old Testament tabernacle. Some parts are for many at the entrance. Some parts are a more holy place where safe people may cross the threshold. And still parts are for just you and God alone, a holy of holies.
Please know there’s no shame in admitting something is hard. Whether or not troubles come that make the 6 o’clock news, seasons appear when trials and tests rain down. God never asks us to skim over troubles but to trust Him with them.
“Nothing heals us like letting people know our scariest parts: When people listen to you cry and lament, and look at you with love, it’s like they are holding the baby of you.” Anne Lamott
Offering eye contact and words that say I understand birth a safe place for another woman to feel held. And where a woman feels held, she feels safe.
If someone counts us as a safe person, may we listen and provide genuine support in whatever ways we feel led. And ultimately, may we thank God for standing with us, for holding our hearts close to His. Because in Him, we are always safe.
A question for you: How do you discern if someone is a safe person? And if you have ever regretted sharing with an unsafe person, how do you rest in truth instead of building walls?
By Kristen Strong at Chasing Blue Skies, a safe place for you.
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