Caught red handed, staring into the face of the one I had deceived I had to give an account for my sins, one-by-one.
Knowing the time was coming, I had spent most of the day trying to weasel my way out, frantically searching for a way to cover my sins. Useless busyness for my sins lay bare, I could not cover them.
The bile in my stomach churned, my head throbbed in time with my heart, I hadn't eaten all day, but the nausea spoke louder than the hunger.
Curling into a ball trying to close out the world, willing sleep to come rescue me imagining that when I woke the blinding headache, gurgling stomach, nausea and racing heart would prove to all have been a rather uncomfortable hallucination.
I awoke, nothing had changed.
The guilt, the anguish, the shame, not being able to lift my head to face the one I had betrayed.
The self-hatred so strong, I could not exist in the same room with the one I had wronged. I sought out the farthest extreme, hoping I would never have to face the one I had mislead again, knowing such thoughts to be illogical.
The anguish of the consequences of my iniquities being made known, knowing the hurt would be a slow wound to heal. The humiliation of admitting that my self-centered actions had profoundly pained those who cared for me and love me most. The shame of knowing that what had been done had no rhyme or reason other than “because I wanted to."
“Me first,” had landed me in the last place I wanted to be.
Emotions unable to express, all I know is the agony, the distress, feeling all by myself, fearful of approaching the one person who can right my wrong. You. Abba
My body has revolted against the stress of this burden, my discomfort finds relief only in sleep.
Is this how you felt on the cross?
Yet your pain was so much greater than mine. My pain comes from one sin.
You bore the weight of innumerable sins. Yet you did not curl into a fetal position and opine for sleep, you endured.
I will never comprehend the weight that you carried as you labored toward that summit. The headache that debilitated me is anemic when I consider the immense barbs that ripped your flesh from your bone crushing through your skull.
My nausea and rumbling stomach lay down their laughable arms when I’m reminded of the spear that raped your obliques.
My one sin, put me out of commission. Yet you bore sin upon sin upon sin upon sin upon sin upon sin...spiked to two pieces of wood. The blood that pulsed out of your ravaged body with every beat of your slowly dying heart covers this sin.
Please forgive me, be not far from me, return to me, as I return to you.
Twenty days ago, my friend's husband was found dead. He'd killed himself.
From my home 265 miles away, I prayed for her, held vigil for her, kept up with her through her many broken posts on Facebook. I begged God to impart to her a triple portion of strength. The strength of thousands of warring angels. Strength that would sustain her as she blindly navigated her way thru this the dark night of her soul.
A week ago today, she buried her soulmate. Today, she catalogs millions of unanswered questions, hopes unrealized, dreams cut short.
Over the past three weeks, I've watched her blog where she often posted about life in general, working through this or that. I'd faithfully check every day, sometimes twice a day, waiting for her to return. Patiently, daily, I waited.
This evening she posted. I was moved by her courage and humbled by the answered prayer for strength. She's chosen in her own way to declare: "Death where is your victory? Grave where is your sting?"
With her permission to republish, this is what she wrote:
With one gun shot, the canvas of my life has been erased. Everything I worked on, was working on…GONE! Just that fast. There is no reason why. There are no answers. There was no note. My husband and my soul mate was simply gone. There’s something indescribably hideous about the suddenly empty space that is filled with fear. It’s a dark and red place where there’s a constant rumbling and tremors. There is a scream that rips your heart and soul apart with a dull spoon.
Kind of sounds like hell. It is.
And that unto itself could make for a story…but the real story begins when I walked through my door and had to take my dogs out. The real story begins when time refused to stop and I had to keep going. The real story begins with me looking at a blank canvas and pondering the possibilities.
...pondering the possibilities. I can't imagine how painful every step forward must be for her. But I am moved to the lack of words at her fortitude to run on.