Had a long talk with my son late last night, after what he describes as the scariest and most stressful day of his life. Turns out the bleeding and all was only the beginning of the nightmare: an orderly that said he was going to get a nurse to check them in, then just went home and forgot about them; a nurse that told them they were going to have to just sit in the waiting room all night, because they weren't a priority; an incompetent anaesthesiologist who left the poor girl feeling everything throughout the caesarean.... But, thank God (literally), everyone is ok in the end, and also thanks to my son, who (don't know where he gets it) is quite hard-headed and extremely protective of those he loves, and wouldn't take 'no' for an answer from the idiots who were trying to blow them off. (Once my other son, Michael, cracked his head while horsing around at school: the school officials tried to hush it up, not wanting to take responsibility: Toby put his fist through a wall and said "TAKE MY BROTHER TO THE HOSPITAL NOW!!! AND CALL MY DAD!!)
Anyway, after all was settled and everyone resting, he came home, relaxed, and called me. Because he was troubled. He said, "Dad, this is the day that I've been waiting for pretty much my whole life. But I don't feel the way I'm supposed to. It's like, I love her, I really do, but I don't actually
feel anything." I knew what he was talking about before he even finished, and I said, "Is it just this, or is it everything?" "Everything."
So we talked about the things he's been through, and I said that combat is hard on everyone, but it's hardest on those who are good, sensitive, caring people. And he had found that, in order to survive and function, he'd had to turn off his emotions. And the way it works is, you can't just turn off the bad ones: they're either all on or all off. And then he came back, and he had those nights when he used to call me in the wee hours, and all the stresses of re-adjustment, and at some point he found that it was easier to just turn them off and leave them off. And he said, "Yeah, Ryann tells me that I'm cold and distant. But I didn't really see it until now."
I wanted to illustrate to him the importance of dealing with this sooner rather than later, because the longer you wait, the harder it gets, and I don't want him to get to the point where God has to supernaturally intervene and give him a new heart, like he did with me. I said, "Do you remember what I was like when you were little, compared to how I was when you were older?" And he said that he did, very clearly. When they were little, I was playful, and involved, and engaged, and affectionate, and kind. And then afterwards I was, for lack of a better word, a hard-ass. Now we've talked about that part before and he's said that he's actually grateful for that because it made him strong enough to deal with anything. But I said that, although that was true, what I should have done was be able to be a hard-ass when I needed to, but also that kind and soft-hearted father at other times. But I didn't: I checked out. And what his family needs from him now is for him to
deal with his issues and then be there for them, completely, including being emotionally available. This is not an easy thing. And it's made harder by the fact that he still needs to be a hard-ass a lot of the time in order to be successful in his work, which is still the Army. So, he's got to find a way to open himself back up to his emotions, but be able to switch back when he's not in the right place to be vulnerable and sensitive: he can't go around weeping and whining while he's fighting or training soldiers.
So, we talked about it for a long time, and about what to do and how to come out of it, but since this blog isn't really about him, and since I don't want to reveal too much about his struggles, because they're not mine, I'll get to the next point, which is what this conversation showed me about myself. I got to thinking about my own heart, and what's been happening since that day when God intervened, and I got some new perspective.
As I said, this is
exactly what happened to me. Sometime, between the Army and police work and everything else bad in my life, I just turned it off. Then forgot where the switch was. And years passed, then decades, and I forgot that there was a switch. I would sometimes think back on "how I used to be" with embarrassment, and get angry at myself for having been so weak (something which Toby mentioned last night that he was already feeling about himself too).
Then the thing happened that we've talked about before, and I was changed. And I went back to grad school, with my shiny brand-new tender heart full of love, and I got nuked. But I made the choice to keep going: to keep being vulnerable, take the pain, and keep letting the love flow out. This, however, left me in an
intensely vulnerable place.
And that's when I met This Girl, and this is why she got in so deep, and I can't get her out. She walked around in the cement of my heart while it was still wet, bent over and put her handprints in it, and wrote her name. And dotted the 'i' with a little heart.
I mean, when I met her, she was
exactly the person I needed to meet at that point in my life. Not because she fit some pre-formed ideal I had in my mind. But, in fact, because she didn't: she wasn't what I
wanted, she was what I
needed. And that has God's handwriting all over it.
You know, when I first met her, what I saw was a girl who was a little bit lonely and a little bit sad. And I just felt my heart connect to her. We would talk about fairy tales, and learning Elvish and Greek, and raising chickens, and going hiking, and beauty, and truth, and how stupid and ugly most of the modern world is, and, most importantly, Jesus. I was totally alone in the world. And I just happened to bump into the only person I'd ever met whose spirit, I felt, was exactly like mine. And it happened at a time when I was the most vulnerable, the most sensitive, and needed it the most in my whole life. How could I not think that was God? How could I not fall in love? And, my God, when she sings...I don't want to be cliché, but it's like hearing the voice of an angel. I told her once, "You, singing about Jesus. I can't think of anything in the world that could make me happier." In fact, even her speaking voice is like the music of the heavens to my ears. I'd rather listen to her talk than to most singers sing.
And I also saw a girl who seemed like she could really use some attention. Which was convenient, because there's nothing I like more than being good to a woman. I just love it. Seriously. No agenda, no manipulation, no hidden motives. I just love doing those sweet little things that make a girl smile and feel good about herself. I didn't mean, at the time, to fall in love with her, nor to make her fall in love with me. It just did my heart good to do her heart good. (And if she would be objective and think back, she would see that this is true because, although she was by far the main recipient of my thoughtfulness, she was not the only one. I've given little gifts, and flowers, and cards, and made gift baskets, and cooked dinners, and given complements, to quite a few women in our church, most of whom are married or ineligible in some other way, including her own mother. But I loved her the most, even before I fell in love with her. That I admit, without apology.)
But the thing, I think, that affected me most was that she accepted me. And liked me. And even respected me. Even though I weighed 350 pounds. Even though I was weird and insecure and socially awkward, like a man who's come back from years alone on a desert island. Even though I was still rough around the edges, and broken, and pretty much a big mess. She was sweet to me, and not just as a matter of form, but from the heart. And that is why I can't accept other people's explanation of her more recent behavior, that she never cared about me at all, or that she's just selfish and thoughtless, or whatever. I know better. I know what a good person she is. I've seen it. I don't know what the explanation is, but I know it's not that. Probably has something to do with fear, although whether it's actually fear of me based on false perceptions or my own mistakes, or fear of her own feelings, or general fear of intimacy, or of being vulnerable, or a mix of them all, or something else entirely, I just have no way of knowing. My God--is that it? Does she, in her own way, have her heart locked away like mine was? Is that why he brought us together?
So the point is, here is why I can't get her out of my heart. Because in order to do so, I would have to shatter the cement, tear up the foundation, and start over. And I can't. My heart has been shattered too many times: it's too fragile: this was my last chance. And I feel like if I even tried, I would be turning my back on God, despising the work he's done in me and the gift he gave me. He could do it. He could tear up that foundation and build a new one. But he hasn't. Even though I've prayed, and prayed, and prayed, and given her and my love for her up to him, and asked for his will and not mine to be done, and sought him, and humbled myself, and fasted, and denied myself, and given up my own will and desires, and actually listened to and considered everyone else's advice, even when it was insulting. He hasn't.
I know all the practical advice. I know all the clichés. I know what a normal person, in a normal situation, should do about something like this. I know what common sense says to do. And if I hadn't known already, I've had enough people offer me their advice and opinions on the matter to gag a tyrannosaur. But this isn't a normal situation: it's a struggle for my soul. I'm Job, sitting on the ash heap, and nothing is going to save me but God. (And most of the people who've offered their opinions have been about as helpful as Job's counselors.)
He hasn't done it, and I can't, and so, until he moves, I'm stuck. And I struggle every single day with slipping back into that hard-heartedness, that emotional dead zone. Every day. Every single day, for the last two years, I've been white-knuckling it to get through. And there's nothing else I can do, but continue to hang on, and trust in him, and wait for his deliverance, in whatever form and at whatever time he chooses to send it. That, or, as Job's friend said, "Curse God, and die."