Reality, Hand in Hand

I’m going to let you in on what is probably the most present, tangible, residual effect of wounds in my life.

Sometimes I have trouble judging my own thoughts – like telling if what I am experiencing or feeling or taking in with my senses is actually real. I know it’s not a dream or anything like that; I just wonder if my perception of it is close to the real meaning of it.

I know what it comes from. In fact, I’ve processed it with my counselor many times. This isn’t just some philosophical exercise in reality for me. It comes from being lied to over the years, from being told that what I was seeing with my own eyes was not reality, from being manipulated and betrayed, from being shamed for expressing alarm over what I was seeing, trying to trust in the shadow of secrets. This didn’t come from everyone in my life over the years – in fact, it’s the tiniest minority of people in my life. But those people, where this pattern existed, were leaders in my life. People I implicitly trusted were also sometimes people who lied. That doesn’t have to happen very many times before it shakes you.

A lot has happened in healing because of Jesus’ friendship. I’ve had to forgive, even where reconciliation hasn’t been possible or advisable. I’ve had to come into the light with confession and repentance – because nothing confuses our perception of reality more than hidden sin. Our own duplicity causes us to lose our grip on what’s true and what isn’t. I’ve had to grow in believing God loves me. Along the way, encounters with the Holy Spirit have undeniably expanded my ability to receive God’s love.

In fact, that’s the biggest truth of my whole journey so far – God loves me. I’ve come to believe this is the truest thing about me – not my wounds or my sin or even my abilities and achievements. In the reality of this love I’ve found confidence and healing I didn’t know was possible.

But even with all this healing, there are days when I second guess myself. I’d say I experience it most in the spaces where I lead. I say something, make a decision, do something, influence in a certain way, express an opinion, take a course of action, serve someone – and then it starts. Sometimes it’s faint. Other times it’s a flood of thoughts.

I second guess my perceptions that led up to my decision. Sometimes I find myself dissecting something someone said or did over and over again from a hundred different angles trying to understand which version might be true. Sometimes I am tempted to distrust someone’s expression of love or loyalty to me for no good reason. At its worst, I feel the temptation to entertain a conspiracy theory of how the network of support around me will suddenly prove to be vacuous and a charade of lies. I know that last one’s so wrong, but if I’m entertaining my wounds and my heart isn’t guarded in God’s love, the temptation can seem strangly seducing.

I have a feeling that for many who see me lead I sometimes look confident, and maybe in many ways I am. Many of the people I lead and serve with approach me so I can help them gain clarity on an issue. Maybe I’m helpful in those discussions. But sometime underneath what looks like clarity and confidence is quite a bit of second-guessing. Is what I’m seeing even real, or is there some other narrative, circumstance, reality that will reveal itself and blow what I’m perceiving apart? Sometimes it’s hard for me to tell.

If you’re a trained mental health professional or a pastor like myself, you might have some kind of diagnosis – psychological or spiritual – to describe what I’m telling you. You might not be wrong. I’ve tried to embrace healing as a posture that I daily live in rather than a task to be accomplished. Christ is my Healer, so that reality covers every single day of my life. Each day this reality seems more tangible to me, so I have every reason to expect that with each passing day of the future there is more healing from Jesus to experience. The need for healing used to feel like a shameful admission to me; now it’s an opportunity for the Healer to do something else yet again – something better than I even knew existed or was needed. Bring it on.

Here’s the particular part I want to share with you.

In recent years, the days that feel confusing – the days when I’m really questioning if my perception of reality can be trusted at all – these days have become fewer and farther between. I think that’s a good sign. Living in community with people who speak truth to me has helped; saturating my mind and heart in Scripture has helped. These are probably blog posts in their own right. Nonetheless, the thought-swirling days still happen. But when they have happened in the last year, I’ve also been experiencing something new.

It’s a reassurance that comes in the form of a picture. It’s simple. I often see in my mind a father holding his child’s hand as they walk across the street, the same way I often do with my three-year-old. When I’m walking my daughter across the street, we are both perceiving reality but in very different ways.

She might see some potential danger. In fact, when we cross the street she often reminds me, “Daddy, look for cars!” Then she cranes her neck in exaggerated form as we taught her to do so she can look for moving vehicles. But by the time we actually begin to cross the street, her exercise in safety gives way to her three-year-old self – talking a mile a minute, skipping with her hand in mine, eyes to the ground to watch her own feet jump, blissfully distracted and unaware of her surroundings. My daughter perceives something of reality, but it’s limited – by her little body, her three-year-old attention span, and her delightful silliness. We’ve been careful to teach her basic safety, but by the time we’re in the middle of the road hopefully it’s not her perception of things that’s actually protecting her. It’s mine.

I’m the one that continues to look, scanning for possible dangers. I see not only her but our surroundings, near and far. I’m listening as well – for an unexpected motor or horn. I’m aware that the situation can change in a moment, and we are vulnerable in the middle of the road. I know where we are going. We aren’t just wandering out here; my steps are intentional. Of course, none of this typically feels overwhelming to me. I’m often laughing and talking with her while all of this is also happening in my mind and body; it’s just that my perceptions are fuller and more present than hers. Hopefully it’s my perception of the situation that’s keeping us safe – leading us to avoid danger and quickly change course in a moment if needed. And it’s my hand wrapped around hers that connects my perceptions to her experience, her body, her movements. It’s this hand-to-hand connection that makes it OK for her to laugh and giggle and skip in the street. Even when she’s doing these things, she’s safe because she’s connected to me.

Lately when I’m second-guessing what I’m experiencing, I’ve felt like a three-year-old in the street. A little kid left alone in the street to cross on his own is a depressing and dangerous sight. Who’s kid is this anyway? A little kid left in the street immediately leads us to question who abandoned him and how this estrangement happened. But that’s not me. I might be in the street, but I’m not abandoned. I’m not alone.

My Father is crossing with me, and He has more perception than I do. In fact, it’s infinitely more perception. No matter how observant I become in relationships, how many books I read, how much I come to understand – I’ll never be more than a three-year-old trying to cross the street. A lifetime of gained knowledge amounts to me craning my neck to see what I can see, but it’s not that exercise in preschool safety that protects me. It’s what He sees.

When my daughter and I are crossing the street, I don’t verbally tell her everything I’m noticing. Sometimes I may not want her to know – it might actually protect her not to tell her about the disturbing scene down the street and walk the other way. It’s better she stay distracted. But mostly it’s not about concealing danger from her; it’s just that she’s three. And at three, it’s ok to not be thinking about everything I’m thinking about. It’s ok just to be in the middle of the street, hand-in-hand with me as we cross together. It’s not the verbal communication of my perceptions with her that lets her be this way; it’s my physical and emotional connection with her. Her hand in mine is enough. Because our hands are clasped together, she’s connected to my movements, my protecting love, my understanding of reality. No need to talk about it. She can just laugh, secure in my love.

In years past, I’d ask God on the confusing days to just let me see. Speak to me out of heaven, make a blinking light somehow appear above the right version of reality, give me a dream – just let me know this is the right thing and I’m not being played! But the more I believe He loves me, the less these kinds of prayers are necessary. He sees. He not only sees me, but He sees everything. Every danger, every dynamic, every destination – He sees it all.

I can trust not only in His ability to see but in His intention to keep me safe while we cross the road. He doesn’t need to give me a play by play of His thought process; it’s enough that we’re connected. Hand in hand, His movements connected to mine, I know that I’m connected to what I need to be connected with – with Who I need to be connected with. And that’s enough. More than make me feel protected, it lets me relax and laugh too. I don’t need to take my own perceptions so seriously. Lately, I’m actually beginning to experience joy in the places where it feels like I can’t see. It’s OK for three-year-old kids to laugh and skip in the middle of the street, so long as their hand is firmly in the grasp of someone who loves them. And mine is.

Maybe life and all that it entails – relationships and leadership and ministry - is nothing more than this crossing of the street, a short experience of our own limitation. Maybe my wounds have delivered to me a gift, an awareness of this limitation that has led me to do what perhaps is one of the holiest things a preschooler can do – laugh in the midst of love even with potential danger nearby. There’s so much joy in trust, and maybe trust is the only place we can really experience joy.