We step out of the church and into the crisp night air. Earlier rain clouds clears away to reveal bright stars brushed across the canvas of a black sky.
“Hold my hand”, I say to her.
She takes my hand and holds tight.
“I’m scared,” I tell her.
She speaks no words, but her eyes. Those deep brown eyes shout volumes to my soul. Her unwavering gaze tells me I am safe with her.
My grip on her hand tightens as the coolness of the night settles cold on our skin. I pause to find the words. How does one share a piece of brokenness without the other becoming wounded by the sharp jagged edges?
I am a porcelain vessel shattered to pieces—shards of glass in a heap waiting to be put back together. Longing for someone to pick up the pieces and care for me with gentle grace. Yet I can not deny the ones who dare pick up the pieces are at risk of the pokes, piercings and scratches of handling my brokenness.
Who can I trust?
Who will care enough to walk alongside the journey of bringing broken fragile pieces together to create the mosaic of masterpieces into a vessel to hold and pour out living water?
Who can I trust?
I know I can trust Him. The Faithful One who is with me always. The Gracious One who is my salvation. The Holy One who spilled His blood to give me Heaven. I know I can trust Him.
But He wants me to risk to become known not just to Him, but to others. He wants me healed and pieced back together—in community.
Revealing the shards of broken pieces to an invisible God is safe, but to reveal my brokenness to another human—face to face, eyeball to eyeball—it’s terrifying.
So much is at risk when confessing an imperfect soul.
What if their eyes turn on me?
What if judgment takes over?
What if they give me a pile of books and endless advice?
What if they look at the mound of many sharp edges and declare me hopeless.
What if they leave and never look back?
What if I walk this alone?
Which would I rather bare? …
This secret infecting my soul?
Or the risk of rejection?
The two mindsets battle for the attention. But now…holding her hand…no—she is holding onto mine—to carry me, to walk with me. She is willing to take the risk of many scratches and possible piercings if it means I will be whole.
My hand wrapped tightly in hers.
I am safe. I know I am.
I choose to risk.
The secret becomes known. Her eyes fill with deep grace. Tears come to mine.
The risk was worth it.
I can trust her. I know I can.
And you friend, can trust me.
On the journey with you,
~Can others trust you to be safe to hear the real stuff of life?
~Do believe there is freedom in confession?
~What is keeping you from authentic community?
Here or somewhere…be real. Share your journey.
Confess your sins to one another so that you may be healed. James 5:16 (emphasis added)