No Red Bow

I read a book earlier this week that has me deep in thought.
It was a good book, a redemptive story, a powerful show of the grace and goodness of God even through tragedy and unimaginable circumstances.
(I'm not telling you the name of the book on purpose. It's not the point I'm trying to make)

What was challenging for me though, was that the story was tied up beautifully with a big red bow.

I read a lot. I read in lots of places. Online, in books, magazines; I love reading. I love hearing the stories of others, and like most people, I like a comeback story. Nothing is more encouraging for a woman in my circumstance than to read about how other women overcame what appeared to be insurmountable odds.
But I'm noticing a trend, especially in the Christian writing world.  I'm noticing that many writers dip down close to their pain, they expose a corner of the struggle, but then they swoop high again towards the heavens and paint rainbows and singing birds.  I have told you multiple times that I am a Perpetual Pollyanna, and that I have an addiction to hope.  I don't think that there is great need for depressing stories, or articles that highlight all of the pain in this life, But.
The more time I spend with people, the more authentic I am, the more I reveal parts of my struggle, and story, and mess, and beauty, the more I hear echoed back to me how others have the same struggles, pain, frustrations and mess.  Struggle is universal.  Challenges, grief, pain and disappointment are in no short supply.  What I long for, is more transparency.  I struggled to read the book because every time pain entered the story, it was swept away quickly with a message about God's goodness, and grace, and the pain dissipated like smoke into the forest.

I believe in miracles. I believe in grace. I've been rescued many times from destruction by a God who sees my pain and my hurt.  I've been on the beautiful receiving end of love and generosity that has blown my mind.  But.  I have not been lifted out of the struggle and placed in a hot air balloon that soars over the battle.  I'm in the middle of the fight; bloody, dirty, wounded. What has happened is that instead of being set free from the battle, I've had people come along side of me- sword drawn, determination set, and ready to get in the mud to help me fight; or to step in front of me while I bend over, hands on my knees desperate for a deep breath and gulp of fresh water.

What the 'red bow' writing does for me is create both insecurity and doubt.  I begin to think that I'm not the same as everyone else.  That maybe God sees them, and rescues them, but somehow misses me in the deep fogginess of battle.  That maybe something in me is broken, or I'm deserving of more pain than they are, or maybe, that things will always hurt and always be messy, and my red ribbon will hang limply, dulled, and never tied into the fluffy bow I've longed for.  The comparison monster creeps in.  I start to wonder if I navigate life with more mess and fear because that's who I am; while their motivation, organization, and inherent 'goodness' somehow keeps them from the bloody battle I seem to be fighting.
Logically of course, I know that this isn't true. I believe that the story I read in her book was truth. That the life I was reading about had been pocked with pain and hurt and wounds I can't fathom. I also believe that there was incredible beauty and redemption that happened through the course of the events.  But I also think that sometimes we don't make it completely safe for other people to acknowledge that hurt can hang out in our living rooms for far longer than we'd like it to.  We want to be told that we can hurry the process of healing along.  We look for the red bow stories sometimes because then we can hope that our tying up time is at hand. That since her bow was tied so quickly and beautifully in the middle of the grief that surely mine must be being prepared for the flourish of a big bow with trailing tails.
It's easy to write of struggle years later when the bow is sitting atop the gift and the feeling of pain has diminished.  It's a bit harder to write during the process when sometimes the future looks muddy, and dark, and much like a shadowed alley - hiding obstacles and also doors out of the gravel hallway.
I don't pretend to think that everyone reading my words is hurting today.  Life isn't like that.  If all of life was dark alleys, and bloody battles, we'd all give up. But everyone's life does have a battle, and an alley or two... and so while you might not ache today, I feel confident in believing that you have known  the ache at some point.
I long to paint with words of honesty. Not because I'm braver, or better, but because I'm more desperate. I know that connection comes in those tender places. That way down deep, under the cute clothes, big smile, and makeup, that each of us harbors doubt and hurt somewhere.  I want to connect there. To make it safe for you to share your heart with me. In that sharing, we begin to realize how connected we are. How we aren't alone. How we are, in fact, just like everyone else.  That our doubts, hurts, struggles, and frustrations are no bigger than our neighbors.  The red bow writing is nice to encourage me that redemption cometh, but I love to read big bold inkiness that gives me a look inside of a heart where both darkness and beauty lives. And in peeling back the layers of protection, light gets in and light escapes... and our hearts are both shared and also healed a bit. I want to let light in and give light out. My bow has yet to be tied up.  I'm not sure I'll live to see the day that my life is tied up beautifully, but I'm learning that I still am being given lots of gifts.  And that sometimes as the saying goes :

“Someone I loved once gave me a box full of darkness. It took me years to understand that this too, was a gift.”

-Mary Oliver