Who'll Write Your Biography?

Have you ever stood in front of someone with a false smile on your face and a, "Just fine," response that was so forced it nearly caused a brain aneurysm? Or sat in a group of people using the word "blessed" so many times that the meaning of the word became weightless right in front of you? Brokenness is not a hot commodity in our world. It isn't looked upon or handled well. We don't flaunt it like new cars or new clothes. When a person can't pull themselves together we so often respond with blame or quick fix answers that hurt deeper still. How many times have I smudged my way through a testimony of grace and forgiveness, ignoring the hard reality of the moments not covered in love? How many exciting personal triumphs get downplayed because few know the depth of the pit in the first place? Why does it seem more appropriate to talk about our struggles when we have beat them, then to speak out a cry for comfort/help/community in the midst of them?

I was chatting with a friend of mine a couple days ago that is in a hard spot. I had no advice to offer, no real comfort and we both knew that patent answers weren't going to cut it. On my way home I pondered the condition of my own community. Who stands with me? Who lets me fall? Who is still there when I am deep in darkness, dirty and poor (and they know it)? As I was thinking I thought about God, the AUTHOR of our lives. The one who writes, and rights, our stories.

On Earth we read biographies because people overcame or pioneered or lived an inspiring few years here. We read, and so often glorify, the independent individual who beat all odds and sacrificed everything to bring something into the world that we all became familiar with - whether an idea or a convenience or another progression of something we already had. The biographers write the story and highlight the success and we read in wonder and heroism.

I don't think God is that kind of biographer. When I see the book of my life (or short story, or article) I will read of a lot of hurt. I will read of a lot of doubt and fear. I will read of a girl, created by God, living life to honor Him and failing in her own humanity. I will read of a girl crying out for mercy instead of judgement, not only for others as I do in public, but for myself as I so often silently scream. The pages of my biography will be tear stained and painful, but they will be real, and in them there will be woven hope, promise and perseverance. Brokenness interrupted by occasional fruit or "success." Messiness interrupted by occasional moments of revelation and awe. In all this there will be God - moving, teaching, challenging, listening, speaking - why? Because He is the story. In my good and in my bad, He is the story.

The silent scream in my city is that of authenticity. Dirtiness. Love that is difficult to muster, but mustered still. The silent scream of my heart is for the same. I do not dwell in difficulty or exalt hardship, but it is part of my life. An ongoing, engagement requiring, ferocious part of my life. As a Christian, I admit to wondering about my faith, doubting what I once thought I knew, questioning the things that are supposed to be absolute and redefining the word "absolute." In the chaos that results from digging up roots long growing in the depths of my soul and the doubts I have at my own ability to receive mercy from God, He is. And in my most heartfelt cry, I know that regardless of where I stand at the end of all time, He is and always will be. If I fail, He is. If I deny, He is. If I grow, He is.

"I'm so glad that this has taken me so long, 'cause it's the journey that made me so strong."