Love anything, and your heart will certainly be wrung and possibly broken.
So says Jack, my friend and pedagogue, in his The Four Loves. And I find this to be true. You may have read one of my previous posts sharing part of my story about finding God and what it means to let Him love me. It is one thing to be vulnerable before the Almighty God, who will never leave or forsake, but another thing altogether to be vulnerable before another fallible, faulty, and self-serving human being.
Marriage is risky.
I am a messy person. Not externally - like in our home, leaving clothes everywhere, dishes undone, the bathroom mirror ajar - that's his specialty. Inwardly, privately, though, I am a mess. There are unresolved issues that I like to keep to myself. Marriage doesn't really allow that. Not really. All I am is his - including my mess. And vice versa.
To love at all is to be vulnerable. Vulnerable can mean "to be open to attack." Completely exposed. Messes bared. Wholly at the mercy of someone else. What a risk.
What a risk to place yourself in dependence of another, to willingly subject yourself to someone who is not you. Who does not think as you do. Who has not experienced what you have, and may not understand that.
What a risk to invest your energy, will and emotion, and your very life to a person who will break your heart without trying or thinking.
What a risk to know that you are in that same position to him, in a position to so easily break his heart, though he may not ponder the situation as analytically as you do.
Let me finish the paragraph I started at the top:
There is no safe investment.
To love at all is to be vulnerable.
Love anything, and your heart will certainly be wrung and possibly broken.
If you want to make sure of keeping it intact,
you must give your heart to no one,
not even to an animal.
Wrap it carefully round with hobbies and little luxuries;
avoid all entanglements;
lock it up safe in the casket or coffin of your selfishness.
But in that casket - safe, dark, motionless, airless - it will change.
it will not be broken;
it will become unbreakable, impenetrable, irredeemable.
The alternative to tragedy, or at least to the risk of tragedy, is damnation.
The only place outside Heaven where you can be perfectly safe
from all the dangers and perturbations of love is Hell.
You see? The opposite of vulnerability is impenetrability. Refusing to be vulnerable is refusing to be understood. You are completely inaccessible. The fear of being vulnerable is similar to the fear of being unloved, but at the expense of being known. If you are unknown by the one that you love (or fear to love), there is no hope for love in the relationship at all. And this shortcoming is magnified in marriage.
Marriage is a religion. It is a devotion founded on faith and trust and love, but based upon the love of Christ for each individual rather than the individual's ability to love on his or her own. Perhaps, then, it is a parable for religion. It is not safe; it is profoundly risky. And that's love. That's life.
So, last night, I'm working the closing shift at Starbucks. It's snowing.
We had just locked the store so we could finish cleaning, counting drawers, etc... and we see two sets of headlights shining through the windows. We rolled our eyes because it's obnoxious when people try to get in when we're already closed. The cars sit there a while.
I take a closer look: it's my husband (in gym shorts) heating up my car and scraping the windshield for me. My coworker (a guy) turns to me and says, "Well, that is literally the sweetest thing I've ever seen. What a great guy, geez."
Adorable, right? Just wait - it gets better.
I arrive back at our flat, where Kevin has prepared me dinner. He ushers me to the couch, where he has my favorite book sitting next to a bottle of my favorite pinot grigio. A playlist of Michael Buble, John Mayer, and Air Supply was on softly.
So very, very sweet.
Then, he prepared a foot bath. My feet soaked while I read my favorite book, sipped wine, and ate popcorn (because he knows and loves me that much), and while he kept the pup occupied in the other room, I got my relaxation on.
But, guess what, there's even more.
He gave me a pedicure. He literally scrubbed my feet.
He didn't even know what a pedicure was, apparently, and had to be told by the ladies at Bath and Body Works (where he bought all the lavender- and vanilla-scented goodness). He did this for me. Out of the blue. For absolutely no reason whatsoever. It was a Thursday night, for goodness' sake!
And THIS is why my husband is the sweetest man alive.
I'm going to let you in on a little piece of Anna Trivits history here. It's strange because as a sort of chronic over-sharer in my early years of college, there are not many people nowadays that know my story. Or the importance of this day - October 11 - five years ago.
Five years ago, I was a freshman at Philadelphia Biblical University (now Cairn University). There's more backstory that I won't bore you with, but suffice it to say I was floundering.
My heart had been broken that summer, a traumatizing experience for an eighteen-year-old girl, and I entered school not knowing who I was, what I was worth, and I had about had it with God. You see, during that summer, when my heart was broken, I determined to (in my own words) "see what I was saved from". That meant nearly open rebellion against my parents, against my standards, and against my faith. I felt I hadn't yet lived, so I set about living.
Apparently what I thought that meant, though, was destructive relationships. I'll gloss over details, because in truth you can probably imagine what that entailed.
And five years ago, I realized I was reaching my limit. I was being stretched too thin. And it was beginning to show. Here's an excerpt from my journal:
I've been struggling with an eating disorder for a few years now... and everything's just coming to a head (at this point, I had passed out in the shower twice). What it boils down to is how much I value other people's opinions of myself. If they don't approve of me, I don't approve of me. And this new environment has just intensified my insecurities. I wish I just had the strength and the confidence to be just unapologetically ME.
Later:
I've been so encouraged by the response of family and friends - my mom called Oasis Counseling Center and I'm meeting with the Baron today... in about 40 minutes. This should also be a good thing, although I'm incredibly nervous and embarrassed to be seeking help for this.
And later:
Well, much has happened, I guess. I've met with my counselor twice now, and according to my intake survey, I have clinical depression. I may be seeing a doctor in a month or so, if things don't improve. I'm just not really sure how I'm supposed to respond to this information.
After several sessions, it became more and more apparent that my depression stemmed from standards that I felt I could never measure up to, and from ever-increasing guilt because of those standards and my decisions the past summer. I knew in my heart of hearts that I was Just Not Good Enough. In another journal entry, I wrote about when I told my counselor The Story of my heartbreak. She asked me how I could tell such a story and remain so calm and composed, but as I processed that, it seemed to me that I deserved much of what heartbreak came my way. I had put myself into those situations knowing full well what I was getting into. And this mentality continued for me, for a little while.
Five years ago, the weekend of the PBU Homecoming (which was this past weekend, in fact), I was about ready to end it all. Another failed and foolish relationship pushed me beyond the limit, and I wanted to punish myself for my stupidity, for once again not being good enough. Fortunately, I had the good sense to tell someone about what I felt prepared to do. This friend may never know that he rescued me from the brink that night, but I am ever grateful to him.
A few days later, my journal read: Yesterday was good. Today is better. I am so thankful for amazing friends and godly examples and advice. I want, more than anything in the world, to give my life to Him.
You see? I still hadn't figured it out. I was still living apart from God, from the One who so desired to fix me, heal my broken heart. My identity, my morality, and my very self was yet unsurrendered to Him. Because, of course, I felt I could never be good enough.
And that's when it all changed. Almost on a whim, two new friends invited me to a concert with them and their circle (the Heritage Hall loungers, as I once referred to them before I was a part of their group). It was a Bebo Norman, Bethany Dillon, and Shane and Shane concert at the University of Delaware. I felt a bit out of my element, new people, new friends and all, and my ex-boyfriend's ex-girlfriend was going, whom I still "hated". But it was music, and it was getting out of my dorm, so I went. I needed it.
The show was good (if you know anything about the musicians I mentioned above, that is understatement), but at the very end of Shane and Shane's set, they played their (then) new song: Embracing Accusation. And I wept. I gave my heart, wholly, to the Lord. I began to believe the truth that they sang, scripture.
You'll understand once you hear the song.
I'll let Shane Bernard explain the rest.
Listen to his story. The full song, with lyrics, is the second video.
-- In 2008, I had the pleasure of meeting the Shanes and letting them know what their song means to me, and how it changed my life. --
Galatians 3:10
For all who rely on works of the law are under a curse; for it is written, "Cursed be everyone who does not abide by all things written in the Book of the Law, and do them."
Galatians 3:13
Christ redeemed us from the curse of the law by becoming a curse for us - for it is written, "Cursed is everyone who is hanged on a tree."
On this day in history: October 11, 2007, I surrendered. I raised the white flag and leapt into His arms. And now I'm free.
So, Kevin and I have been wanting a puppy for a rather long time.
It's sort of impossible to live in Colorado and not own or want to own a dog; it's even more impossible to work at the Idaho Springs Starbucks, surrounded by only the most avid of dog-lovers.
Dogs are expensive. Especially, we've found, corgis. Especially corgis that aren't mixed with something else, particularly chihuahua. We wanted a corgi. It's become a practice of mine, when I've absolutely exhausted my typical online demands (a la Facebook, Failblog, news sites, etc), I'll look up corgis up for sale or adoption in the Denver area. Friday, I found an interesting ad. There was a litter of Pembroke Welsh Corgis (aka the type the Queen prefers) almost three hours away from us, but the price was right. Kev gave the lady a call, who said she had only one male left. We braved Friday evening traffic, stopped to get Chick-fil-A, and made it to the place just after the sun had set. Needless to say, although the breeder didn't have papers for him (because when she bought the father, that breeder didn't get through the necessary paperwork, or something), we fell in love with this little guy and brought him home. Well, first, we went to the hospital, because our best friends were having their baby. Funny timing, we know.
Anyway. We love him. Bilbo has one of the best personalities I've seen in a dog: he's playful, but quiet. He rarely whines, and I've heard him bark (almost whispered, like he's not sure he wants to commit to it) maybe twice? He knows to use the bathroom outside (except when he was so excited yesterday at church - sorry about that, again, guys). He is perfectly content rolling around on the floor by himself, chasing his tail or the rope toy we bought him. He jumps on me when I sing (delightedly, we think), and he wrestles with Kevin like a champ.
I'm out of alignment. I ought to see a chiropractor - apparently, for "tune ups" - for the rest of my life to consistently be readjusted. Made straight.
This is the first post I've written in a few months, and I realize that all too often I feel the need to blog when something's up. Something wrong. Something I've got to process. Sometimes journaling and praying don't cut it when I have to process actively.
And it's because I'm out of alignment. I need readjusting.
My back, yes.
My heart, also yes.
Not many people know that I went to counseling my freshman year of college. For depression. So much healing took place in that office, on that couch, pouring out my struggles to what may as well have been a complete stranger. At the end of that year, I felt whole. Put back together.
Over the next five years, big things have happened in my life. Good and bad. Relationship ups and downs. Periods of peace in feeling the gladness of God, and dry spells. Little by little, emotionally, I drift out of being perfectly aligned. Each jolt in the road disturbs my vertebrae.
Do I allow time for myself to be restored? Do I devote proper time to the things in my past that still require dealing with? Daily allowing the Lord to redeem my mistakes, my hurts? Do I still trust in the truth that I've learned to trust and believe as truth?
It is time for those engaged in contentious debate to put the pitchforks down, pick up some coffee cups and have some messy conversations. Messy conversations lead to healthy conversations. Healthy conversations lead to understanding. Understanding those whom we disagree with leads to pure tolerance.
