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To Post or Not to Post

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Have you ever written something so real and raw and close to your heart that tears stream as the keyboard keys click? 

I’ve been writing all morning and I’ve cried more than I’ve cried in weeks, but you won’t read that today. You’ll read it later. You’ll read it once the gaping wound from which I’m writing has mended. I’ll share it once the blood has stop flowing and scar tissue has formed. I’ll share once the tears are tears of hope and the reward for my resilience. 

Often, people will say, “Oh, I’m sure blogging is great therapy for you,” but that’s not the case. If you’re writing for therapy, that’s called JOURNALING and your words should stay in a private book for a time. 

Do not post.  

Journaling is therapeutic and appropriately self-serving. Blogging is taking the pain that you’ve already digested, packaging it up all nice and pretty and presenting it as a gift to the world. Blogging isn’t about ME, my blogging is about YOU.

This is my offering of love to you, that through an intimate experience with my pain and joy and the joy and pain of others, you might see the world in a way that you hadn’t before. My truth may not be your truth, but I hope that in brushing hands with others’ souls, we begin to experience life that we would not otherwise have considered. 

I do not have a child with cancer, but I want us all to behold that reality. I want us to be unable to look away, too gripped by the awful truth of inadequate funding and political sluggishness.  

I was born white and privileged, but I desperately want to understand the truth of growing up BLACK and BEAUTIFUL. I’ve never worried about what happened if I were pulled over by law enforcement. What does it mean to live in fear of those who swore an oath to protect me? Where would I turn if I felt universally misunderstood? How would I feel about white people if my ancestors had been so savagely treated by their ancestors? 

I am not gay nor do I struggle to accept the gift of my chromosomes. But, what would I wish the world knew if I did? 

I do not live in a third world country. I am not impoverished, but what would I scream to the west if I were?  

I have not been trafficked by the monsters of the sex industry, but I have been raped, so I feel the plight of those who are being abused as closely as I feel my own skin.  

This is not a blog about the newest fashion or the flashiest trends. I’ll leave that to the professionals. This is a blog for the broken and hurting, a gift of love to the misunderstood and the ignored. An act of obedience to my Savior whose heart breaks for those in slavery of any kind. His heart breaks for the refugees and those starving in bleak and battered countries. He yearns to hold the #metoo’s in His hands and the hearts aching for a baby, breaking from their barrenness. His heart burns to rescue the unraveling minds of veterans who desperately search for peace in a bottle or on the wrong end of a gun - our heros aching for an escape from the dark side of laying their lives down for others. 

I don’t think He’d preach to trans people, I think He would hug them and tell them that He SEES their pain and He KNOWS their hearts because He knit them together in their mother’s womb with purpose and a plan. 

I don’t think He would condemn our gay neighbors, but reach up and touch their faces, the faces some of us turn away from in disguist and contempt. I think He would sit with them. I think He would hang out with His creations - the works of His hands. 

If He were on a field, He might kneel. Jesus doesn’t care about flags. He doesn’t care about our national anthems or of what nationality we boast. Jesus is neither black nor white. Jesus wasn’t even a Christian and while He came to us male, GOD is neither male nor female.

Some weeks or months, my blog goes dark, not because I’m not writing, but because I’m writing and not POSTING. If I’m typing and weeping from my open wounds, it wouldn’t be loving to share. It would be inviting you into my misery and that is not a place for strangers. 

I post once the wound has scabbed over, not because I’m afraid of showing my wounds, but because I don’t want to make you sad... I want you to have HOPE. I want you to feel the searing, hot sensation of awful truth and I don’t want you to look away. I want you to keep reading and then I want you to feel the wings of your heart begin to respond, soaring to a place above your own struggles - where you see your pain as lessons and opportunities. I want the bravery of your soul to rise up and DO something about your pain and the pain of others. I want you to see the next special needs child you meet as a real, live human with feelings and a family - a mom who would give a limb to keep her child safe, who would scream until she’s hoarse, begging the world to BE KIND; a father who may feel replaced by his wife’s advocacy fight; siblings who may feel forgotten, too whole to be noticed. 

And I want you to interpret your own pain differently. I want you to see from my pain that pain cannot kill you unless you let it. I want you to begin to understand that your pain is a map, showing you the next step to take and often giving you a glimpse into your  destiny. 

I want you to consider that there are perspectives outside your own - white people whose struggles you’ve never been open to hearing, and black people, whose oppression you could not begin to understand.  

I want you to see, REALLY SEE, the mothers who feel so unseen. They, themselves, feel foreign, stuck in bodies they no longer recognize, with children who can’t cuddle the loneliness away and husband who can’t possibly grasp the concept of being over-touched, over-cried-for, over-needed. 

I want those of us who often take the abundance of our fertility for granted, to catch a glimpse of the agony and sacrifice of a woman who feels like less of a woman because she believes her female organs have failed her. 

So, I write. I journal my broken heart, my disappointments and rage and then I pause. I lay them at the feet of Jesus and ask Him where to offer my words next. 

And more often than not, He tells me, 

Pause. Heal. Then, PROCLAIM.

Post.

He tells me to proclaim good news, restoration for broken hearts, freedom for captives and point the way out of the cave for those in darkness. He tells me to write in a way that will comfort those who mourn and He tells me to boast of His favor - favor that glows brightly, not in a life of no struggle, but in the heart of one who sees the fight and races towards the pain, determined to overcome, because she knows that she doesn’t race alone nor does she race towards pain that was not already crushed at Calvary.  

If you have a story to tell, a perspective to share, hope to impart, freedom to demand for others, a journal of healed wounds that could make a difference in the lives of others, by all means, POST.  

If we all posted from love and hope, left our therapy for our private consumption and could consider that our unique perspectives are not the ONLY perspectives, then we should post. 

Always post. 

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Not My Boy

Overjoyed