A Love Story

a surprising recollection employing general vagueness to protect the innocent, and some guilty.
So here is a story about me, some other people, and most importantly, someone who loves me very much. Watch out, though, it's not as it seems. There are actually several people who love me very much.
The first who deserves mentioning for doing so made the fact clear by writing a story including the following passage:
"It is often the case that in a family where one parent is a substance abuser, members of the family are forced to take on certain roles. The parents are the abuser and the enabler, but in order for them to not feel guilty about this, they label the children, and place all the responsibility on them. In this case, they decided that one was the good kid and one was the bad kid. The bad kid, however, was the one who rescued both children from that horrible situation."
That last sentence made me cry a lot because it reminded me of a lot of things. First, that though we suffered, we suffered together, and second, that though I was the one refered to as the "bad kid," I managed to prove instrumental in helping save someone who matters to me. I makes me realize that without me, someone I love might still be trapped in a situation without love.
This thought brings on happiness, but it's a strange kind of happiness. It's not giddy, it's not distracting. It's like being happy in a grave, consuming way. When I first read that story, I felt a flash of that heavy happiness. But then I forgot about it. I had a mood of heavy sadness that flowed in and around and weighed down the spark of happiness until I was bare sad again. Several things had happened that had bred this overpowering despair.
For two years I have felt like an immense failure. I have felt my life's potential drop away just because I chose not to hold onto it. I gave up on many things, especially happiness. I even lost faith without even realizing it.
I thought I still believed for a long time. I thought I was praying, fellowshipping, and growing closer to the Lord. But I was not. I genuinely thought I had witnessed to and helped save a friend, and I genuinely thought he was a friend.
But several months ago he used my friendship in a way noone should, but many do. That left me sad and afraid, and more without faith than ever. I got more and more depressed, irritiable, and hopeless, thinking I couldn't possibly stop. I've been reliving the trauma more and more, and no matter how much contact I've had with fellow Christians, by last wednesday, I was feeling ready to break of my relationship with the Lord.
But on that day, a real friend told his own story:
In order to illustrate the importance of descipleship (challenging believers and nonbelievers to grow closer to God) he related his struggle last year with temptation. Before, I had always thought of him as a near-ideal follower of Christ because of the way he now lives. But less than a year ago he was fighting to the death against the pull of sexual sin. I was shocked. He told how he'd asked our adult leaders to diciple him be keeping him accountable, and that he eventually had to break up with his girlfriend, and yet the lust had continued. He admitted that he had been about to fall away from faith. The thought that someone so seemingly good had almost been lost brought tears to my eyes as I sat in a crowd hearing his story. It became truly amazing as he said, "And then, someone decipled me in a way they don't even know..." He paused, not wanting to say it. As sappy as it sounds, I knew what was coming next. "My friend was raped." After that I started weeping. "That stopped it right there," he continued, adding that he was so sorry that that's what it took to end his sinning.
And I continued crying, but not so anyone could hear or see. I talked to him afterwards to explain that though I had been crying, I hadn't been sad at all. He replied that he hadn't looked at me the whole time because he, too, would have burst into tears. I said it was totally ok that he told the story, because it really helped.
And it did. I indeed hadn't cried from sadness at all. Instead I was swept away by that overwhelming, weighty happiness. It sank into everything and made me see clearly once again. I remembered love once again.
Not for him, though. I may love him a little bit. Ok, maybe a lot bit. He's my dear brother, but I seriously do NOT have a crush on him.
I recovered awareness of a monumentally more important love. The love of someone who cares more about the both of us more than we can possibly imagine. I came to fully appreciate God's love. Somehow His love can not only overcome death, sin, and suffering, but can reshape all of those mistakes and all of that pain to help us and others.
I was greatly traumatized by failure, rejection, and later sexual assault. Yet, coming to know that my mistakes were working into the Lord's greater plan for me and were used to recover one of His precious children who would have otherwise been lost changed everything. It makes it stop hurting. It makes everything stop hurting. Nothing matters anymore except that feeling. Since last wednesday I've prayed and prayed. I've prayed to thank Jesus for this feeling, I've prayed that I wouldn't lose it again, and I've prayed that I could share this feeling with others. It wanes a little, but I pray for it to come back and it does. At its strongest I feel than in these winter nights I can't be cold, that under every stresser I can't feel anxious, that with every frustration I can't get angry. Now, I still slip back toward the world and its feelings. I still sometimes momentarily forget this feeling and get angry or cold or sad, but I much prefer this happiness. I pray for it to stay.
I hope you feel this way all the time, too.