A couple of years ago I came home from a weekend spent with my best friend at a Women of Faith conference in Downtown Portland. I absolutely loved it! Everything from the lights to the worship to the messages, to the skits were inspiring...I especially loved the skits. Stories have always been a huge part of my life. Even when I was a little girl I was a story teller (: I love the ways words sound when I roll the around in my head and how the weave into images and emotions. I love how something as small as words, when strung together, can become something like a story. When I got home I immediately got to work. I wrote and wrote until I could get this story out from my heart and onto paper. Although it may not be my life's story, it's a kaleidoscope of one's I've heard.
Jesus Wept: A story of Hope
We all have demons. Some demons creep up on you when you least expect it, but others never truly leave. They have you caught in their webs of deception and despair. No matter how hard you try you cannot free yourself from its sticky fingers. These giants seem to crush you under their feet. You look for an answer. Even if the answer is YOU ARE ALONE. Just knowing for sure would give you a rare bit of peace. Just knowing.
I had never hurt so bad. My heart felt as though it had been ripped from my chest and left out broken and oozing. Nothing I did seemed to fix it, and believe me I had tried EVERYTHING. But nothing could shut off the demons whispering in my ear, cutting into the sores by telling me...I am worthless.
My dad's words ran through my head. I could feel the sting of every word and every blow. Letter by letter my defenses fell down until my wounded heart was left fully exposed.
"Ugly, worthless, fat, stupid"
The lies rang true in my soul. The incident was my fault. It had to be, but yet part of me didn't want to believe it-couldn't bare to think about it. What made my life Hell and drove my parents apart...could it of been because of me?
I sat on my bed in my dark bedroom. The curtains covered the windows, blocking any light that might come in an remind me of mourning. I just sat there, looking at the door. It was unlocked but I felt trapped. I was locked in from the inside of me. I got up and slipped to the floor by me bed. I used the wall with the window to pull me up. To give me something sturdy to cling to. I couldn't stand alone. I needed to get to the door.
The trip from my bedroom to the door to the bathroom was painful and slow. Each step felt like five. I was climbing a mountain of shame and self hatred. With every breath a memory came. The incident. My fault.
Looking in the glass of the bathroom mirror I studied my reflection. The florescent lighting seemed to dramatize the darkness surrounding my eyes and the hollowness of my cheeks. The bloody nose and fat lip just brought my spirits down farther. I could no longer recognize this desolate girl before me. The one who used to be pretty and full of life, until that man with no face stole it.
These scars weren't just on the inside. If they were on the outside, I would be able to heal them, but I couldn't. No it was the scars on the outside that threatened to give me away. To tell the world I wasn't perfect. The criss~cross pattern of the scars on my wrists, hips, and ankles resembled cracks in a hollowed vase. The translucency of my skin and visibility of my ribs were just another dent in my armor. I was a soldier in a one person war, trying desperately to beat the world and it's darkness.
I reached under the sink and grabbed the first aid kit I kept there. I began nursing my nose and lip. I patted and fixed, and fixed, until I could fix no more. Then I fixed again. I scrubbed away the blood on my face until my cheeks were raw and red. My black eye was more tender, but the pain brought sweet release.
My friends had become a razor blade and a box of band-aids. My control was how much I didn't eat. Maybe I could cut out what broke me and starve the demons and tormentors. Maybe then I could be whole again...maybe then.
I once again looked at my reflection. I studied the tear that slipped down my cheek and dropped onto my life savor in that first aid box. My razor blade. It seemed to glow. And the need to find a little relief pressed. I picked up my little silver piece of hope.
It no longer hurt-my first thought as I cut. My tears vanished for once it seemed. I felt a sliver of hope. Relief poured out of me with each ruby red drop. With each bit of life giving blood drained.
I had given up long ago trying to limit cuts. If I died it would be no loss to anyone anyway, but as I cleaned up the blood and bandaged my outside wounds, I once again felt a wetness on my cheeks. I looked at the blood on my hands and felt the last bit of what was holding me together crumble.
Then I heard a voice. Still and small but power radiated from each word spoken.
I felt piece of laughter tumble from my lips. Plans. What plans could you have? I say aloud.
"If you had a plan of Hope for me, I wouldn't be sitting here a step away from taking my own life."
What am I doing? There is no voice. I am going insane. The sobbs hit me then, bring with it a twisted laughter. The kind of which would haunt all who heard it. The laugh was so full of pain, it hurt.
"For I know the plans I have for you." declares the Lord. "Plans to prosper and not to harm you, plans to give you a hope and a future."
A new voice jumps in. It sounded dark and horrible, like a waking nightmare the word's it spoke seemed to hold all the shame and horror I had felt since the incident in each letter. "Pick up that razor. You can end it now...don't have to fear anything ever again."
I look at the razor.
The memories are stronger then they had been in a long time. I see myself walking through that alley. I see a shadow of a man. I feel his grasp and smell his breathe. I hear my screams. I feel the fear then. I feel the loss again. I feel what he took torn away.
"Why did you let that happen? Why? You said you would love me. When I came to you as a child you said you would love me. Why didn't you love me? Why didn't you care?" I am screaming now. Screaming and sobbing.
The evil voice whispers: "He is to busy. He has so many children why would he want one like you? Just end it now. Go on...do it."
But the still peaceful one said, "I Love you. You are wiped clean by my blood, if only you believe."
And then that Cold voice started again "He's Lying t-"
I cut them off.
"SHUT UP! please. Shut up! I can't do this anymore! I can't breathe, I'm suffocating but I can't seem to die!"
Then once more I hear the still small voice speak, "Jesus wept."
I remembered that story. Jesus had cried for his best friend's death. He knew He would raze Lazarus from the grave, that the story would end with life...but His friend had to die. If this small voice is right I don't have to do this. I don't have to cut deeper.
I hear what sounds like a man weeping. But I hear it in my heart. Somehow I know He was weeping for what I had lost. He wanted to take away the burden.
I could hear His voice in my soul saying. "Child. Please, remember my scars. I have them because I Love You. You are worth it. At the beginning of time my father made you special. He set you apart.* Let me help you my child.
Jesus was weeping for that piece of me that was gone. He didn't care that I had been raped. That I had been broken and violated. He wanted to bring me life! Wanted to bring my dead body back to life.
I stood up from the place on the floor I had been sitting. I looked at my scars. I saw them heal. Only a cross was left. I am God's...
Jesus wept for me.
Verses that inspired me:
Jeremiah 29:11 and Jeremiah 1:5 and John 11: 1-43
