What Kind of Love

February is the month of “love,” and to be honest I was intimidated by the topic. I ran to my bookshelves to determine if there was anything I had read or needed to read so I could properly address the subject of “love.”  I realized I had purchased, but not yet read Four Loves by C.S. Lewis, so I was determined to digest this book and wait for the Holy Spirit to speak. Right as I was about to pour the coffee and break out my pad and paper, my past came back to haunt me. I’ve been weeping and praying for the past 24 hours and determined that I would go ahead and share.

Present day, I am a married woman of 20 years (going on 21). I have the house, two kids and the fluffy puppy. One could argue that I am living the American Dream. I can attest to the fact that I never dreamed that this would be my life. I describe myself as a recovering Postmodernist Feminist but everyone that has known me for the past 23 years doesn’t realize what exactly that means. They’ve only seen the “sanctified” version of me.  Truth be told, I keep God rather busy in my sanctification process on a daily, hourly and let’s just be honest, a minute-by-minute basis. Thank goodness He is Omnipresent! In her latest book, Openness Unhindered, Rosaria Butterfield said what I live on a daily basis:

“In order to have real community, we need to tell each other the stories of our lives. And we need to listen when someone else’s story makes us uncomfortable… I want you to know from what country I emigrated, and in which country my citizenship permanently and eternally resides. I’m not a native speaker of this country. No real convert is. I will always speak in broken godliness, as new paradigms reread old feelings.”

With that said, let’s chat about that visitor from my old country.  As I said, I had rifled through my bookcase and was ready to read C.S. Lewis’ Four Loves – between Lewis and my Bible, I thought I was ready to write this devotional. I receive an alert on my phone and I immediately recognize the name, and upon closer examination, the face. My husband happened to be home sick and I walk into our room and ask him if he’s awake. I tell him. It was my ex-husband, he found me.

There’s so many lessons to derive from this. One thing is for sure, the internet is forever! Don’t think I didn’t use that teachable moment on my girls, but I digress. I felt compelled to respond, but I wanted to talk to my husband first. He gives me the green light. I responded. I’ll spare you all the details and simply sum up our conversation.  There’s a couple of things you need to understand about my immigration process.

Being a pro-life activist and looking back has afforded me a whole lot of perspective; perspective that had me weeping when our conversation was complete. When I met him, I was drawn to his story.  My mother had me at age 15 only to turn 16 a week later; my biological father was 45.  While the circumstances surrounding my birth were less than ideal, I was welcomed in my family. I was loved. My ex was born with “club foot,” making him what the current Progressive movement refers to a less than desirable. In family court, he watched his mother leave and his brother get adopted while he was left behind. Of course, I being young, vulnerable and for added measure let’s throw in some hormones, I felt that if I just “loved him well,” I could fix him. Therein lies the rub.

Dear friends, this is the ultimate egoism to think that I, a mere mortal, can love someone better than God can. His love is perfect, mine is far from it. Being a Christian, I now know that the only person capable of loving that deeply and healing all those hurts is Jesus. Not me, no matter how noble my intentions. But in my faulty humanity, I believed I could. I failed in epic proportions and naturally this led to our inevitable divorce.

Fast forward, I have before me a broken man, who is seeking peace and closure. During our conversation, I reminded him that I thought we had parted ways amicably and that we did in fact have closure. Then he reminded me of just how broken I was during our last meeting. I was headed to a far-away country; and just like a prodigal, I threw my fist up to the heavens and would listen to no one. I was willing to forgive his indiscretions and the abuse, but I wanted no part of what he had to say or offer.  It should be noted that while present day, I advocate fiercely for the unborn and for the weak, I aborted this man’s child. Deeply humbling is all I can say.

He said to me, “I have had dreams that you were dead.” That hit me square in between the eyes. When I paused to reflect the country he was seeing me head into, it’s no surprise that he wondered whether I was even alive. He said to me, “You were so far gone!” and I gently replied, “Not too far for God”  

I think Christians tend to forget that “but for the Grace of God, go I” we really do. We forget we were enemies of God. While I don’t recognize that person I once was anymore, this was the last impression I left with him and it left an impact. In our short interaction, I realized the footprints that we leave behind when Jesus is not at the center of our lives. In this new country, I seek to make an impact for God’s Kingdom. I offer up the only thing I can offer and that is the Greatest Love of All – and no, it is not loving yourself. It is full surrender to the One and only that can heal all your wounds and take a heart made of stone and soften it. Only He can make things new. I know. Here I stand, as the song[1] says, “Greatly blessed, highly favored, imperfect but forgiven child of God”

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This blog appeared at Rachael Carman, Rooted at the Throne, devotional series

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[1] Gaither Vocal Band