But honestly, I ain't mad at 202. 202 is just a number. It isn't who I am. It's what I weigh today on this journey. It just is, and I can judge it or love it. I choose to love it, because I know what it took to get there. I honor that experience. I'm tired of fighting it. Besides, I don't plan on staying at 202 long.
It's funny, when I was looking for images for 202 I came across this Zazzle t-shirt:
Hearting my 202 is so much better than crying about it. The first time I saw that number was on a doctor's scale in Michigan. I cried when I came home. I felt way bummed out this time, but I didn't cry. I call that progress, and that time, back in Michigan, it was 202.5!
While I was at the doctor's office waiting for him to get my prescriptions, the woman who may be my sponsor called. I told her that I didn't think I was as ready to get busy as I would liked to have thought I was. I still wanted to keep the box of grief hidden. I did not know at the time we had this conversation that I didn't want to give Jesus the box, not just because I was afraid of the pain it would unleash, but I was angry at my Beloved for allowing me to go through all that mess. It was he who told me, as I sat in the meeting tonight listening to stories that I was angry at him. Often he speaks to me in questions, but today he simply stated, "You're mad at me." And he was right.
I didn't know I was mad at him before that. It was an epiphany.
I mean it was an epiphany in more than one way. Like the wise men who sought him, it was epiphany of a Christ that I'd not seen before. It was a moment of sudden insight, and it was a revelation of a divine or a supernatural being, because as sure as the incarnation, Christ came to me tonight, sitting at that meeting. He came as a small still voice in my soul. He bore witness to the truth. He shared the good news really: you were mad at me. It is good news, because seeing that changes everything.
After being stunned by his voice, in my mind I allowed myself to thrash, and accused, and beat on his chest. "Where were you?" my sad little woman/child shouted. I knew he was there all along, but I was still angry, and I still had to ask, no demand, "WHERE WERE YOU WHEN I WAS STARVING!?! WHERE WHERE YOU WHEN HE WAS HURTING ME!?!" He didn't have to tell me he was there, weeping as I wasted away. I knew. He just wanted me to ask him. They'll be no giving him a box of grief I don't trust him with, and if I trust him, I'm safe to say, "Why did you forsake me?" even if I know he didn't do that at all. But that little woman/child believed it. And her feelings had to come to light. After all. She is me.
Jesus let me rage, and all of this took place quietly on the inside of me as I listened. This inner storm went on until my inner 89 lb woman/child was good and tired, and my anger spent.
"Are you done?" he said.
"I'm not sure."
And lovies, that is the truth.
Jesus nodded, and waited, the box sitting between us. But I didn't lash out anymore, I just stood there wishing he would take me in his arms. Of course he did. He held me, and soothed me, and he's still holding me now. And I can make it through the night.
Grace to you,
mair-francis, who really needs to do something about her hair!