Honesty Pants

The other day, a good friend of mine came into my room, climbed up into my bed and began to cry. And I just let her.

I firmly believe the question, "Are you okay?" is quite possibly the dumbest question on this earth. Here's a hint: if you have to ask it, the answer is probably 'no'.

So I didn't ask her if she was okay. I didn't ask her what happened. Instead, I just held her, let her cry, and waited. I knew she would explain her tears when she was ready.

I've heard it said that that no matter what you go through, no matter where you find yourself, you can always choose to learn.

Learn about yourself,
Learn about life,
Learn about the God who created those things.

And to some extent, I believe this is true. But perhaps I have to agree with that because I’m an education major – education majors are supposed to be life-long learners who believe in learning and are convinced everyone can learn.

But sometimes, I think that's just a bunch of bull.

What if, at this moment, I don’t want to learn? What if, at this moment, I don't want you to talk about what I should have done, should have said, and what I should do next . . .

What if I don’t want to dance in the rain? Maybe I want to pitch my tent of self-pity and sit in it until the sky stops crying. Maybe at this moment, all I want to do is find any kind of precious validity that may belong to me – some seemingly unattainable worth, a sense of legitimacy adorned in the beautiful gift of brokenness?

Because really, all I want – all I need – is a graceful, loving, head-held-high acknowledgement that this sucks and the lesson can wait until later.

Call me high maintence, but really that’s all I need – someone who says that this hurts - this hurts really bad.

I suppose what I don’t need then, are empty promises. Like the empty promise that things will be okay.

Don’t tell me things will be okay.
I want things to be okay.

Acknowledge the pain, nurse the wounds with those friends that can heal you from the inside out with laughter and who have an endless supply of Oreos and milk. Those friends who aren’t concerned about condemning you, the ones who are willing to dive into the wreckage with you, share the pain, and carry the burden right beside you. Tell yourself that this hurts, that the pain is annoyingly persistent, that the place you have found yourself is dark, lonely, and teeters on the edge of hopelessness.

But most of all, weep.

Weep, but weep moving forward.

In Scripture, Ruth lost her husband, but she wept moving forward. (Ruth 1:7-14)

In Acts, Paul had to leave to Ephesian Elders. After addressing them, Paul “knelt down with all of them and prayed. They all wept as they embraced him and kissed him. What grieved them most was his statement that they would never see his face again. Then they accompanied him to the ship.” (Acts 20: 36-38) He wept moving forward.

In their tears, Ruth & Paul kept walking forward. Although there will be weeping in this life, the direction in which we weep is what truly matters. It is possible to cry and walk.

So today, if you weep, weep moving forward. And maybe when you put one blurry foot in front of the other, you’ll find that lesson waiting for you – waiting at a place where you’re ready to acknowledge it, embrace it - share it.