I wait for him to finish in the restroom so that we can switch, and I replay the day in my head. Did we get all of the groceries that we needed? I think we spent too much money, but there's nothing we can do about it now. I wonder if he held my hand on the way home, and I just want it to be tomorrow already. I lie down in the bed that's used to just the one rhythm of sleeping breaths but makes more sense balancing two. I slide the duvet over my shoulders, but I can't make myself like a cocoon anymore, tucking each corner underneath the weight of myself so that no air can get in. Instead, I stare up at my weird, new fan and keep my arms at my side. I feel the little girl emerging that doesn't like to be forgotten, and I try to stuff her back in like the too-much toothpaste that somehow got out. This always happens. I tell her silently that she's grown up now and that she doesn't have to worry and I bargain with her to please not screw this up - it's late, and it's only been two weeks. How are we already two weeks old? Goodness. It's funny, isn't it, how we can feel so excitedly fresh in the same instance of feeling expired. Just go to sleep.

"Do you feel happy?" 

You can imagine me frantically scooping up the words as they each fall out on top of the one before it. The second I say it, I have this picture of a lady, poised and polished - she's starting to gray but she can't be over sixty. She walks straight like her back has never bothered her, and she carries a lipstick wherever she goes. She has tact, but she's not afraid to offend you if it means sparing you the public embarrassment. She scoots over to me from across the sidewalk and, out of pure concern, taps me on the back and whispers, Excuse me, Miss. Your insecurity is showing. 

Of course, I don't mean the question like it sounds. We're married and we have a home and, as of two hours ago, we have enough food to fill it. So, what did I mean? He asks the same thing. 

"I don't know. It's been a really busy couple of days settling in, and we haven't had much time to connect. You seem quiet and you didn't say that I was pretty today." In perfect little girl fashion, I do the proverbial hair-behind-the-ear tuck, recounting several earlier moments when he had adored me but casting those to the side. "I just wonder if it's possible to slip into normalcy so soon that the pursuit kind of stops."  

You know those times when you cannonball into the pool of vulnerability and all you want is for the receiving end to nod their head? To say that they'd been chewing on the same sourness and that they know exactly what you're tasting here. However sucky the affirmation may feel, it's better to know that you're both on the same page? This was one of those times, and I only looked up at him to see if he was nodding, and when he wasn't, I wished I had been asleep an hour ago. He said that he was sorry he had let me feel this way, and he opened his arms wide to invite me in, making up for the perceived farawayness that had created an apparently one-sided wedge. An ocean between us that only I could see. Watching him attempt to make better something that he hadn't noticed in the first place made me cower. I turned my back on his drawing me closer, and I hoped that we would shut up for the night. 

"Hey, don't run." He has my attention at this point.

"Sometimes, you become brave enough to admit feeling pushed aside, and then just as I'm fixing it, I see that you've hidden again. I'll chase you, but I don't have to. I've always just been right here." Okay. Hey, Jesus. I see you. 

I was so taken back at the accuracy of that remark, and I got quiet for the first time so that those words might wash over me and entirely sink in, silencing my stubbornness, and saturating my stiffness. My eyes searched the room, grasping for anything to say back that would invalidate what he'd found out, and there was nothing. I felt completely known and a little bit humiliated for it. I expressed how silly it was to be desperate and that I'd rather be sought after than left tugging on his coattail and that even wives want to be tended to. 

. . .

I'm reading a book right now by Lysa TerKeurst called Uninvited. It's about living loved when you feel less-than, left out or lonely, and it makes me mad how right she is about our fears of being rejected. She says that "we run at a breakneck pace to try and achieve what God simply wants us to slow down enough to receive." She says that there's an abundance and a fullness of Love that won't leave us begging others for scraps of their love. She sets forth the notion that this love welcomes our sharpness and esteems our riskiness to be honest with Him but that to love Him is to cooperate with His grace in return. What a concept.

Ryan and I were under no assumption that marriage would fix us or take away our stuff - the pangs of his shame and my inadequacy. But I figured that they might manifest in different ways, taking on shapes and sounds and personalities that I hadn't known before, and I was right. That night, I felt exposed and caught, wincing beneath fig leaves. I cried those tears that only you cry when Jesus finds you curled up in the closet and kneels down to tell you that he'll chase you but that he doesn't have to.  That he's always been right there and how he so delights in that tugging on his coattail. Who would have thought that I'd be two weeks married, hiding from a fickle, human husband and a perfectly faithful Father that won't stop running until I'm out of breath, hands on my knees, undeniably cooperating with their grace. And let me tell you, what I'm learning hurts so good.

Before I get into it, I’ll say this…never have I written about something that’s gone on in the news or published my thoughts after a public tragedy. I read those that do, and I bite my nails, marveling at the way that they somehow have the right words and the wrong words, shuffling around, trying to speak for the rest of us. Sometimes it feels a little bit like the t-shirt company that capitalizes on Prince’s death with a 2016 Purple Rain tribute, and I feel guilty in the act of taking an incomprehensible mess and attempting to make it palatable. It’s selfish to insert ourselves, especially if there isn’t some tangible form of help being offered. I understand. But I don’t blame anyone – as humans, however unholy, there’s a button in our systems that gets pressed by hurt and tells us, “C’mon. Think back. How can you relate? Just try.” A lot of us feel it and decide not to listen…call that ignorance or denial or what have you. The other of us feel it all the way and fail miserably at the putting-on-their-shoes-and-walking-in-them part. Articles are shared and campaigns are started and Twitter breaks, and it either comes out as empathy or as bigotry, but I think the human tug that wishes we’d all be one and feel as one is in us, and it’s in us for good.  

I woke up on Monday, yawned, and rolled my eyes at fifty-something deaths that had come back as a bunch of political platforms, each of them not changing anyone’s mind. I blinked and there were guns – people who wanted them and people who didn’t. Blink. Maybe it was the Muslim’s fault. Blink. Conspiracy theorists digging for evidence that Orlando never happened in the first place. Blink. The candidates are still bickering like kids. Blink. Is it okay to shop at Target again?

My eyes became sore, and I surprised myself when I stopped reading and I prayed to care. I didn’t pray for the victims of the shooting or their families. I didn’t pray for Christina Grimmie or the Olympic swimmer or the girl behind the dumpster. I got on my knees and said, Make me care that they’re gone. Make me care that she’s damaged and that he doesn’t know you. It was different than any conversation we’d had before – I wasn’t concerned with other people loving their neighbors this time; I was praying it for myself. My heart was the only thing I wanted him to make better. I quit for a second and thought about how after a few lengthy captions about the “unthinkable”, we’d all table the discussion until the next Largest Mass Killing in U.S. History dusts us off and we put up our silent fists. In a moment of squinty-eyed cynicism, He turned my face toward his and started removing the planks that I hadn’t noticed were there. It didn’t feel great, like most conviction, but they were wide now, I could see pure, and I wished that everyone might experience this. I guess making your heart well looks a little bit like that.

Sammy Rhodes is a pastor in South Carolina. He’s a husband, and an author and one of my favorite people to follow on social media. He isn’t quick to separate the laws of theology from the character and nature of God. People are important to him, and he’s shown me (albeit online) the value in vulnerable writing. If it’s honest, it’s most likely awkward, and that’s okay.

He recently posted an apology to our LGBTQ brothers and sisters that was really important and goes beyond just religion and personal opinion. In response to heaps of hypocrisy regarding homosexuality and “being like Christ,” he writes: “Please forgive us for not being like Jesus, who when he was with the woman at the well cared far more about sharing a drink with her than he did about her sexual choices. We’re all the woman at the well. Please forgive us for condemning your sexual choices loudly, while we quietly looked at porn, masturbated with lust in our eyes and hearts, cheated, got divorced, and just generally fell short of anything like sexual integrity…for writing and reading books about you far more than we’ve had you over, shared meals, seen movies, gone to parties with you.” This isn’t about gay people. It’s not about sitting on our hands when we disagree with something. It’s about removing planks and removing them again until we see the creation that was once described as “good.” It’s about changing our hearts before we plead with Him to change theirs.

I’ve played the prejudice game before. I’ve gone to bed with hate in my heart. I feel like I fight intolerance more than the average person. I’ve made deals with the Lord – if only he’d come and fix the world, make it more livable. But every so often, I’m able to weed through the thickets of my judgment, and I see children all standing in a line. It goes on forever and they’re all battered and broken. Torn clothes, speaking whatever language they know best. They’re you and they’re me and they’re everyone else we have to exist with, except none of us are older than about eight. And like a person who’s been adopted and can’t live without knowing where they came from, we’re all looking around searching for a maker. Who put us here? We hold hands and say that at least we have each other.

It’s a really neat picture for me, because it explains the heart of the human tug I talked about earlier. We’re all cut from the same cloth, and that’s why we’re able to weep when another person in the line weeps. We don’t inherently know how to tell political correctness apart from not, or how to make decisions based upon truth rather than fear, and we can’t seem to find out how to stop the weeping. But somehow, we were born with the same desire to fuse ourselves with another, soul meeting soul – a gift that no other species was given. And it’s that connectedness that makes our stories similar when all is said and done. It’s what makes the me toos and I’m with yous some of the most powerful words ever spoken.

It was a simple prayer, one that I had never prayed before, (and one that seemed too self-seeking considering the circumstances) that lifted me from a place of apathy to compassion in only seconds. I asked Him to make me care about what saddens Him, to clean me and realign my heart with His own, and in my head, I imagine Him snickering, saying, “Well, why didn’t you just say so?” I watched as I was gutted by the master of making people care. Pride fell out, disdain fell out. Contempt, indifference and condescension. I felt light, and I felt free, and I hoped that more of us would be brave and offer up the same, simple prayer. Because what starts as an inward ache continues on as seeing like He sees, and what was once, “Come, Jesus. Take me from this place,” becomes, “At least we have each other” and all of the sudden His kingdom is here.