Wednesday, June 29, 2005
The Hurt of Love
Visit me at my new website - anniecrawford.com
I have been somewhat successful most of my life at keeping people a fair distance from my heart. Perhaps because of my parents divorce when I was 5 I learned at a young age that love hurts and somehow figured it was easier not to be close to people I don't remember making any kind of conscious decision in that regard, but as I look back through my childhood, I was a detatched child. I didn't like too much affection and I was never really close with my siblings until after high school. I never learned to call my step-father "Dad".
By the Lord's gracious work in my life, I have been learning to draw close to others and love, but it is still a work in progress for me. I believe that is a main reason why we were given children so quickly in our marriage. My girls, like no other event in my life, have forced my heart open in ways I did not anticipate. My sweet babies have helped me greatly to love others. If I can risk to love my children, other people don't seem nearly as dangerous to love, except one.
During my college years, the Lord began the uncomfortable work of refining and I began to draw closer to my family, especially my sister, Abi. She is the only sibling of 5 with whom I share the same two biological parents. We look alike and share many similarities of both humor and hurt. She is 5 years younger, and due to a variety of circumstances, I began to love her not just as my sister, but almost as my own child. My parents thought perhaps I could reach Abi in a way they could not and they encouraged my own impulse to try and nurture Abi and take care of her.
At one point she came and lived with us for 6 months. She struggled with Bulemia and depression and panic attacks, among a few other problems. I would try to sing her to sleep at night so the darkness might leave her alone and allow her to drift to sleep before 3 AM. I became pregnant during her stay and my ability, or motivation at least, to nurture her dwindled, about the same time that her desire to try and face her own demons and work through them also dwindled. She ended up leaving our house on a bad not. I still struggle with guilt over not doing enough for her, not praying enough for her, not risking to love her enough while I had her within my home. I can make excuses, but they seem surmountable and stupid now.
She is much worse now than she was those few months two years ago. Add to her former difficulties alcoholism, marriage to a felon drug dealer, a crystal meth addiction, and health so poor I would not be surprised to one day receive a call of her having fallen dead. I pray that she is still alive because God has plans for her, plans to display his might and glory in her life. I have myself dabbled in drugs before and I know the terror and mental pain that they bring when you don't feel so "high" or something goes wrong. I can lay at night and know somewhat the horror and excruciating pain in her soul that she lives with day by day and night by night. She follows the path of the living dead, and it is nearly more than I can bear because I love her as my own.
My prayer is obviously for a miracle. Last night I pictured running up to the dusty road of Jesus and begging him, "Please, Lord, come save my sister. One word from you and I know she can be healed." I don't know the Lord's timing, we never do until it is finished, and like Martha, I wait with irrational faith while the Lord seems to tarry and my sibling seems to die.
In the waiting, I pray that I would continue to heal and have the courage to love, despite the great pain that it brings. I pray that I would not numb myself, but become a vessel of prayer and blessing; that I would not inoculate myself from pain, but remember the suffering around me so that I might be a hand filled with extended, active compassion. I don't really trust myself to be able to do this, but then, aren't I praying for a miracle?
By the Lord's gracious work in my life, I have been learning to draw close to others and love, but it is still a work in progress for me. I believe that is a main reason why we were given children so quickly in our marriage. My girls, like no other event in my life, have forced my heart open in ways I did not anticipate. My sweet babies have helped me greatly to love others. If I can risk to love my children, other people don't seem nearly as dangerous to love, except one.
During my college years, the Lord began the uncomfortable work of refining and I began to draw closer to my family, especially my sister, Abi. She is the only sibling of 5 with whom I share the same two biological parents. We look alike and share many similarities of both humor and hurt. She is 5 years younger, and due to a variety of circumstances, I began to love her not just as my sister, but almost as my own child. My parents thought perhaps I could reach Abi in a way they could not and they encouraged my own impulse to try and nurture Abi and take care of her.
At one point she came and lived with us for 6 months. She struggled with Bulemia and depression and panic attacks, among a few other problems. I would try to sing her to sleep at night so the darkness might leave her alone and allow her to drift to sleep before 3 AM. I became pregnant during her stay and my ability, or motivation at least, to nurture her dwindled, about the same time that her desire to try and face her own demons and work through them also dwindled. She ended up leaving our house on a bad not. I still struggle with guilt over not doing enough for her, not praying enough for her, not risking to love her enough while I had her within my home. I can make excuses, but they seem surmountable and stupid now.
She is much worse now than she was those few months two years ago. Add to her former difficulties alcoholism, marriage to a felon drug dealer, a crystal meth addiction, and health so poor I would not be surprised to one day receive a call of her having fallen dead. I pray that she is still alive because God has plans for her, plans to display his might and glory in her life. I have myself dabbled in drugs before and I know the terror and mental pain that they bring when you don't feel so "high" or something goes wrong. I can lay at night and know somewhat the horror and excruciating pain in her soul that she lives with day by day and night by night. She follows the path of the living dead, and it is nearly more than I can bear because I love her as my own.
My prayer is obviously for a miracle. Last night I pictured running up to the dusty road of Jesus and begging him, "Please, Lord, come save my sister. One word from you and I know she can be healed." I don't know the Lord's timing, we never do until it is finished, and like Martha, I wait with irrational faith while the Lord seems to tarry and my sibling seems to die.
In the waiting, I pray that I would continue to heal and have the courage to love, despite the great pain that it brings. I pray that I would not numb myself, but become a vessel of prayer and blessing; that I would not inoculate myself from pain, but remember the suffering around me so that I might be a hand filled with extended, active compassion. I don't really trust myself to be able to do this, but then, aren't I praying for a miracle?
0 Comments:
Post a Comment
<< Home