I've got music in my head and lightning on my mind.
I remember the morning vividly. One of the loveliest I have lived. It started with a heavy dose of raincoats and umbrellas. By a little house in the middle of the great woods, a 22 year old me ventured into the downpour with dog in tow, determined to take care of business before the work day started. It was a rare Midwest storm. The thunder was soundless, the drops heavy. When lightning struck, the entire sky lit up in a brilliant, pure, effervescent sheen. For seconds, no tree could hide behind dark skyline. Past Melinda savored each burst, deliciously. The rain tasted fresh on her tongue. The woods echoed with bass of velvety thunderclaps. The warmth of electric light tickled her upturned chin. After several moments, she turned back to the house. Time to prepare for a soggy Kansas commute.
In storms such as these, I remember the woman who never meant to interrupt Jesus. But I digress.
I hear the phraseology "hurt by the church" and I'm immediately intrigued. It's becoming more common in its usage and the reasons vary from legitimate to ridiculous. I have great judgement for one end of the spectrum--the "I walked in, saw a bunch of hypocrites and walked out" variety. While they are right, I also notice they tend to possess unsavory traits--a need for attention, and unearned sense of self righteousness, a negative attention to detail, and a refusal to look in the mirror. Jesus is teaching me grace, for we have all held these characteristics at one time or another. There's a learning curve in every lifetime. I get it. I've seen it. I know.
The other end I have much empathy for, because I've witnessed the effects firsthand. When a Christian safe haven turns into the hands of abuse. When mentors transform into intolerable bullies. When church families start throwing each other to the wolves before our very eyes. I get it. I've seen it. I know.
Both ends have doors closed to their hearts, things which I cannot pry open by any stretch of the imagination. Something has shut inside, and to presume entry would only end up with splinters in my hands. I have not earned the right to share in their sorrows. I'm naive. I don't get it. I haven't seen. I don't know.
Right? No. False. I'm going to be perfectly blunt-- I have earned the right. And I'm far less naive than people would believe.
I can't stand internet word vomit, because Past Melinda was so good at it. I've made new goals to avoid that sort of shallow dialogue. But in the interest of vulnerability...in the interest of healing...in the interest of this crazy request I'm going to make of the Reader, I am making an exception. You need to understand why I love the woods, why I remember the woman, why I cherish lightning so much. It's because the years of 2011 and 2012 were...just...bad. Just bad.
I started my college years as a hopeful freshman, stupid about the world and ready to change it. I left a wreck. No one leaves carrying the same plan they arrived with, but this was different. I scrapped together the shambles of my graduation. I physically broke ties with a teacher who forgot how to teach. I left east Missouri with 30,000$ of debt, the embers of a student teaching semester that crashed and burned, and no idea what to do.
I spent the next months of my life with little finances, little sleep, little health, little education, little fellowship, and a great sense of loss. Let me be clear:
When I say I had little finances, I mean I had no health insurance, but 300$/month medication I had to have. I literally lived from paycheck to paycheck, crossing my fingers that the balance wouldn't go below the red line. I obliterated my savings on a class, then books, then tutoring for the class (over $2000)--that my college then told me I would not need...then I absolutely would need...then I wouldn't need. I was fortunate enough to have a job and be able to barely make loan payments and very, very cheap rent.
When I say I had little sleep, I mean my entire cycle was backwards. I could not physically sleep at night and was exhausted during the day. I spent most of my semesters beforehand getting--no exaggeration--2-4 hours of sleep a night. There were times when my body would physically shake from the effort of trying to get out of bed.
When I say I had little health, I mean I spent most of those months being sick. I went from bronchitis, to walking pneumonia, to the stomach flu, to throwing my back out, to a sinus infection, to bronchitis again. I had anxiety attacks monthly. Three of these led to a breakout of hives and uncontrollable itching. In the midst of all of this, I had been diagnosed with PCOS, my cholesterol had skyrocketed, and my triglycerides were though the roof.
When I say little education...it gets trickier. I went to a very accomplished, very Christian university. Many professors, including my advisor and the university president himself, showed me great kindness. But it was a subliminally awful place to be female in a way that's hard to articulate. It had turned into a place were judgement was accepted over compassion. Tradition over reason. People did not do life here, they did a polished version of it. It wasn't until I went back one day and saw the new library, the updated arts facility, the rehabbed cafeteria when it clicked. My tuition was far more important than my education. This was a school that saught to make disciples but really--cash was king. I knew this when the only people who went up to bat for me were non-Christian professors. It was confirmed when stories of hundreds of students with the same situation started pouring out. It was solidified when I drove four hours in blinding fog and a dangerous ice storm to finally ask for their help (and also, mind you, take a long distance test for another "required" credit I was stubbornly squeezing in) and be told that my health problems were not an excuse and that I wasn't taking my education seriously enough.
When I say little church family, I mean I came home to a nasty sex scandal, the second one, initiated by two beloved mentors I had looked up to for almost 20 years.
And when I say a great sense of loss? I almost lost two very close family members in the span of two months. There was nothing I could do to help hold my family together anymore. I was tired of watching so many marriages around me fall apart. And I couldn't explain nor absorb the constant happenings of misfortune anymore.
Hurt by the church? I get it. I've seen it. I know. How tragic it truly is when the bride is represented so poorly. How terrible when bystanders are trampled because of it.
On that rainy morning I considered my situation, and that night I resolved to give my very last cry to a God who was not listening. I happened to be listening to The Afters, Light Up the Sky as I drove through the streets dotted by lingering heat lightening. I said simply, "I don't want anything from You. Or need anything. I just need to know You are here. That's it."
I pulled into the driveway as the song hit verse two. I looked up as it geared up for the chorus. And--exactly in time with the music--as the artist sang "light, light, light up the sky," a massive bolt hit the ground. The trees were a stark black against the purest of white light. Soft electricity ransacked the night. A still small voice said "I Am. Here." And I...might have peed my pants a little.
For what it's worth, the same thing happened the next day. Not with lightning,but with lightning bugs. Same song. Same beat. Lightning bugs lighting in time with the music at exactly dusk. It happened. Scouts honor.
He showed me it was worth it to reach. The woman was rewarded greatly, and so was I. When people reach, it's in His very nature to respond.
In the midst of Matthew chapter nine, we find her. She had been hemorrhagging for years. There's no telling how she may have been treated by society. I mean, honestly--have you ever seen what happens when a girl has to bring up her period around a group of men? She, too, was probably judged, scandalized, marginalized, and cast out. She, too, was mistreated by representatives of Yaweh who were really, really bad at it. And she was pressed in by the crowds, and she was reaching, and she was straining--all she wanted was to touch but a corner of His garment.
"For she said to herself, 'if I only touch his garment, I will be made well.'"
He stopped.
She had interrupted a Prince on a rescue mission for Jairus'daughter. Time was short, death was certain. But because He is the commander of time, because He knew her worth, and because He loved her to an immeasurable degree He stopped, looking for the one who reached out to Him. A surprising pursuit of the human heart, to say the least. He could have done anything. He could have been annoyed. He could have yelled at her, stating that she did not know the gravity of the situation. He could have ignored her and kept on His way. He did none of these. He stopped. He asked for her. And He gave the reassurance that her faith had made her well. One moment she was sick, and the next she was whole. This was all part of His unmistakable heart for her.
It is the same with us. With you. With me. With the lightning. And that's why, wounded one, I must ask you to be bold, and consider insanity. I must ask you to reach for Him again.
The issues I detailed must now be put to bed. I've gleaned the lessons I can from them and it's time to leave them behind for good. I'll do so with you. I'll reach.
It is insane. We feel as though we've suffered by the hands of people who aren't who they say they are. Whether in the simple case of fallible beings, or the complicated instances of malicious intent--there is value in leaving behind false prophets and learning how to love again.
So please. You'll feel silly, but you will not regret it. Grab my hand. Stretch out your palm. Look for his cloak.
And reach.
