The Art of Opening Up

No man is an island.

Yesterday was Mother’s Day. And as I sat back and watched my family…I myself wearing the hats of mother, daughter, granddaughter, niece, aunt and sister, I realized the truth behind that statement. Who I am, the woman I am still becoming, is incredibly influenced by the people around me. My relationships with them give me so much of my identity. And on a day that recognizes some of those titles, there was a little melancholy that attempted to invade.

But today, a new day with new mercies, I’m ready to write. Motherhood is the single thing that has shifted my view of the Father more than anything else. Love like no other floods the lowlands of my heart and somehow, sufficiently covers the bad attitudes, the momentary rebellion, the long nights of teething and the constant pouring out. It’s the thing that picks at the threads of the orphan mindset that still sometimes covers my eyes and taints my views. Because if I can love these kids as much as I do, then surely the One who imagined me…whose hands scooped up the dirt and formed me…whose breath fills my lungs…can love me too.

Being a foster parent was one of the most incredible things I’ve ever done. I got to love and sow into so many children…keeping some of them as my own…some of them leaving with pieces of my heart that I’ll never retrieve. And I can remember thinking, “If I didn’t love them so much it wouldn’t be so hard to say goodbye.” And with that one thought, a dark and twisty path presented itself. Because the depth of our love…our openness and vulnerability to one another…is directly related to the degree of grief and heartache we will endure if the relationship ends. So the temptation to build the wall, to flip the switch, to shut down is a real thing. Because who wants to grieve? Who wants a broken heart?

But I’ve done that before. Several years ago, I looked at the most important person in life and purposed in my heart that they would never make me cry like that ever again. And with that decision, the lights switched off. And for quite a while I wandered around in the dark…searching for the switch that would bring back illumination…tenderness…tears both happy and sad. And I couldn’t find it. Then one summer night, at a youth camp where I was a counselor, when the power had gone out…no air, no lights…I told God, “I won’t muster one more thing…not a tear or a smile…just make me feel again.” And the dam burst. And now I cry and laugh all the time. And it’s glorious.

There is an art form to opening up…in giving people permission to speak into your life…through relationship and intentionality. To open up your heart and let them rummage through and trust them not to exploit the things they find. Like so much else I’m learning on this broken road, it’s a choice. So maybe sometimes I overshare. Sometimes I verbally process and unload. But I’m just an apprentice in this art form. I won’t turn back. I won’t shut down. I will embrace this messy tenderness…hoping that my vulnerability will call out to those around me and give them permission to uncover their armor chinks.

It is our weakness that shows the perfection of His power. So this season is the ideal canvas for Him to paint His glory upon. I purpose to keep the muddy colors of my own volition off of His peerless palette. To allow my weakness and inability to only highlight His might and goodness. To learn from the relationships I’ve lost and lovingly tend to the ones still growing. To fight for promises that seem hopeless by resting in the nature of the One who made those promises. Because a promise is only as good as the one who made it. And He is not a man that He should lie.

I’m laying down my hammer and nails. There will be no wall built. My only defense will be the three nails and two boards that constructed the cross…the very invitation and standard raised in the art form of vulnerability.