Leaks

*I sat in a small wooden boat on the shore near the edge of the sea, watching the tide roll in. Huge waves crashed in on themselves, sending up sprays of water that angrily hissed and roared each time. The water crept nearer, somehow maintaining the deceptive appearance that it had not reached me until, before I knew it, I found my small craft lifted by the inky black underneath and now surrounding me. My heart skipped a beat as panic and adrenaline shot through my body. The water surged around me, pulling at my boat like fingers. And my boat shuddered in return, fighting the force of the water, but too rickety to keep the sharp pokes at bay. Slowly, leaks sprang. With no bailing devices, I did the most natural thing possible: I tried to stop the leaks. I crammed the ball of my foot into one crevice while jamming my fingers into other dribbling pools. I'd been swept up in a surge that I dared not lose myself in, but my only floatation device was failing me. I did not have enough fingers or toes or hands or feet. Each leak gave to a spurting geyser, like a bleeding artery.
Finally, in my desperation, I called out for help - *


I'm not going to fake it and pretend that I've been sleeping well for the past week, or pretend that I haven't lost my appetite. I have trouble sleeping, and grief has left me with an almost perpetual sense of nausea. I've spent much of my time hoping for distraction, trying to focus on the work that I know that I need to be doing. If there ever was a way to break me, this week has been it. And yet, in my brokenness, I've finally been stripped of the ability to mask my pain enough so as to fool most people around me into thinking that I'm okay.

I've always been one to wear my emotions on my sleeve, but I don't really like it when my pain shows (refer to previous post about "Hilary Bean..."). I've tried to hide that I'm hurting, but the pain has shot through like water bursting through a poorly constructed dam - finding chinks and cracks in the seams so that I've practically been oozing. Finally being this tired has left me in a spot where all I can say is, "No, I'm not okay." And there's something amazing in that. Because from that spot begins a conversation or a journey in honesty. Granted, I don't want to wallow here; but there's something remarkably freeing about not trying to be so "strong" - as if I didn't need anybody around me to love, hold, and support me right now.

I have always made it a goal to be honest, but I cheat that standard when I am not fully honest so as to "protect" others from what I perceive to be something that they could not handle (usually, my emotions). But if we are called to tell the truth in love (another Scripture reference from some place in the Bible that I'm way too tired to look up), then I must balance the two.
I tell the truth in a manner of love. Telling the truth is a way that I love. I love, ergo I tell the truth. Knowing the truth, further allows me to know and be known - and to love. With this as context, I now share some wise words that I was told tonight, and which I hope to add to and shape my journey in becoming a loving truth-teller:

"Verbalize what is true. Don't verbalize what is 'safe' or 'comfortable' - verbalize what is true. 

(When you don't, that's what gets you into trouble.)"