More Than Just Things

When I was a kid, it was cool to ride a huffy bike, or to have a bike with a banana seat and streamers hanging from the ends of the handles. Super-soaker water guns had just come out, and you were awesome if you had progressed from roller-skates to rollerblades and invested in a neon colored slap bracelet or two. But I always wanted more. Not more things—more than just things. I wanted people. I wanted a mom who wasn’t an alcoholic, and a dad that didn’t make me flinch every time he lifted his hand. I wanted to be loved, and hugged, and held by someone safe. I supposed that’s the way the Lord created us—to live in relationship and community. HE has the Trinity, and we are made in His image…how then should we live?

As it was, I actually didn’t have many things. I didn’t feel sorry for myself about that until later—perhaps late middle school or high school. I found myself without things or relationships. So I spent lots of time alone—meandering here or there, picking up random hobbies, or watching TV. I rode my bike all around the neighborhoods, collected rocks, and even learned to juggle. I used to go outside and shoot hoops for hours by myself. I died to the idea of connection and togetherness altogether—for survival. None of it was safe, so I did my best to stay away from it. I was to people as an anorexic is to food. You train yourself to think all of it is bad, and you try to shut down your desires for it any way you can. I appreciated the way that protected me in certain ways—my parents were tornadoes, and I was [by default] right in the center of their paths…inherently. So I found that my relational anorexia kept me from utter destruction in that way. But now I battle this way of thinking. I never did forget what I really wanted, like I hoped I would. I hoped I’d forget that I wanted more than just things, because things are so much easier to lose than people. But that was utterly impossible, probably due solely to the fact that God created us for relationship. I would live like I didn’t want it most of the time, but it would always surface when I’d see a father-daughter scene in a movie, or when I would be offended when my parents said or did something mean to me. You cannot kill that desire—not even by killing hope with severe solitude. I heard a story once about an American P.O.W. in Vietnam. He was captured and held in solitary confinement for several years. His food was slid to him through a tiny opening at the bottom of his door. After four or five years of complete and utter solitude, he saw the opening at the bottom of his door crack open a bit. Light shone through the cracks and out came a Vietnamese hand, open and outstretched. The American stared at the hand for a long moment, wondering what to do. He feared that it was a trap—that perhaps his hand would be jerked outside of the door and severed by the ones who captured him. But in his desperation, he reached out and embraced the hand. They held on tightly for about five minutes—neither one spoke a word, nor could one see the other’s face. But they just held on to one another, and stayed in the moment as long as they could. The American soldier states that he survived a few more years in solitary confinement because of that one interaction—human touch, flesh on flesh…connection. If we are living without it, we are not truly living.

Now Jesus has broken through the walls I built up and invaded my heart with love and relationship—with Him and with others. I’ve felt abandoned and forgotten, but He came for me and never forgets. I’ve felt insignificant, but he has given me dignity and honor. And He didn’t have to do it, but He has been gracious to give me what I’d always wanted—people who love me. And I’d been waiting all my life to love them…

I used to kill my desire every chance I got. But now even when someone (or even everyone) I love is upset or angry, it’s still where I want to be most because it is just one more chance to connect. It’s more than just things—it’s relationship with people that grabs you with interlocking forearms and drags you through the mud any time they have to go through it themselves…and as things get increasingly slippery, your grip on one another gets tighter. And when you are through, you wipe the mud off each others’ faces and embrace one another even more tightly. It is messy, but you love and appreciate one other more once you are clean again. I tell you, it is worth every tear and toil.