My Heart

Someone requested that I post the following entry. *I changed some names to protect my friends, but it is probably one of the most honest things I have ever written...

MY HEART

Have you ever loved someone so much that your stomach hurts? It is physically painful how much you feel… like an army of bees spinning honey in your organs… like a coil twisted so tight, you wait and wait for it to spring, and it never does. That’s how it’s felt to love him sometimes. There were times when he would kiss me and my heart would catch and I literally couldn’t breathe for a fraction of a second. That was Jake*. I always thought those were fairytales.
With Rob*, I spent every waking moment with. He knew my past…he was part of it. We were linked by family and history and commonalties. It was all in the details. It felt amazing to be known and to truly KNOW someone. I loved him the best way my sweet and unbroken 20-year-old heart could. That was Rob. He was everything I grew up thinking I wanted.

I look back on it now and marvel at how careless I had been with my heart. I look back at that love and I know it was so small compared to the love I have for Jake, but for some reason, Rob hurt much more. Maybe it’s the whole, "the first cut is the deepest thing’ but I remember nights crying so hard that I would wake up and my eyes would be swollen and sealed shut with my tears. I DID love Rob. But when I look back, I see how naïve and innocent it was. I had never given him my heart. I let him see it all the time. I didn’t know to. I felt safe. He knew every crevice, every scar, and so when things didn’t work out, my heart felt heavy and vulnerable.
I loaded my life with extra-curriculars and business, hoping to distract myself from seeing that my heart was becoming heavy with grief and cracking from the weight and fullness of rejection and failing to juggle everything successfully. Soon, everything crashed and my broken heart fell last. It was too heavy, and I dropped it. It was a fresh heart too, you know? When it fell, it didn’t shatter from being cold and made of ice. And it didn’t crack and break apart like a brittle pot of clay. It didn’t thump loudly and indent because of it’s callused, outward covering. I wasn’t callused, I wasn’t bitter. I wasn’t cold and aloof. I was fresh.

Don’t get me wrong. I had been hurt before. I had soft spots and bruises and cuts all over that heart. But they had been bandaged and were healing. My heart simply had never known it could take such a beating. I used to long to know what it felt like to fall in love and get your heart broken. Now I wish I had seen the treasure it was to not have that experience. It may have not been perfect. It might have been misshapen and bruised, but it was whole. And after Rob, it just simply wasn’t the same. My heart hit that floor and it just fell apart like a soft melon being dropped from a high place. Pieces flying in every direction and that soft unprotected center oozing out.

And I did what I had to do. I scrambled for the pieces, scooped everything that had escaped back into my damaged and soft heart. And then I started binding it. Not bandaging. Binding. I had to keep it together. I could not be broken. I wrapped it in thick strips of muslin first, then covered it in mud and let it bake in the sun till it was hard. Then I covered it in cement. I tried covering up that soft heart with something harder than I was. And I did something else too.
I started hiding my heart. I kept it in a jar above my bed for a while, hanging from a chain. But when it’s beat would keep me up at night, I would cover it in socks and sweatshirts and try to hide it in my closet. When that didn’t work, I buried it in my yard. But I kept it safely hidden away. For a while, I resorted to a social version of myself that was safe, and was me but only just enough to keep people from getting too deep. They knew me. Sure. But only two inches wading in.

God would every once in a while pick away at that layer of cement. He would find it no matter where I would hide it and he would just start picking away. And sometimes there was a lot of pressure. I would feel that pick and hammer against my heart, and I would know that God was up to something. But it would also feel so good when he would pick up that heart. And hold it in his hands. Even when it was the heaviest, after it’s latest concrete dip… even then, I could still feel his hands through every layer. And he would wrap himself around it… and I tried not to mind that he was destroying everything I had made.

When Jake came along the concrete was gone, but my heart was still broken. The muslin still clung furiously to my bloody, broken heart and the cement had done a lot of damage. More than I realized. It had pushed a once vibrant and unashamed heart into a small, dark, space. And I still hid it every night before I went to sleep. Once in a while, when he would come over, I would hold it in my arms, clasping it desperately, and let him peek through the cracks in my arms to see it. Sometimes he would think it was so beautiful, but most of the time it would overwhelm him and he could only look at it for a few moments. It was too much for him. I could never figure which was too much: the beauty, or the decay.

After a while, I let him hold it, but only if it was in a basket. He always wanted a blanket too, just in case it became too much to look at it. My heart was happy when it was with Jake, and it shone so bright that the light would burst through the cracks and in between the lines of the muslin.
Jake wasn’t always very good about taking care of it, but I still trusted him with it. I don’t know why. He dropped it all the time. That was the biggest problem. He would always apologize, saying he didn’t mean to drop it.

I would always forgive him.

The best part is that when Jake was holding my heart, I was allowed to hold his. He has a beautiful heart. Don’t get me wrong, it’s seen some bad things. It’s got bruises from his childhood, a few knicks here and there. The most noticeable is a long deep cut that runs from the top almost all the way down to the bottom. Apparently, when he was younger, a vicious Lynx had pounced on it and had swiped one cruel and sharp claw at it. Jake would insist that it was healed up, but sometimes when he was busy paying attention to my heart, or distracted by something else, blood and pus would just ooze out of that wound and I would clean it up softly and gently and wouldn’t say a word.

Meanwhile, God was always asking to spend time with my heart. Sometimes it was annoying because Jake would already be gone with it, out taking a walk or something. God would still stay and talk with me, worried that something might happen to my heart while it was with Jake. I went over all the logical explanations as to why it was perfectly fine. God would just nod his head and look at me. I could see the worry in his eyes, but I would just busy myself with something else or change the subject.

Jake was strange about my heart. Sometimes he would come and gladly take my heart and other times I would ask for him to take it and he would want nothing to do with it. Sometimes I would ask Jake if he wanted to keep it forever. I told him that if he just asked nice and maybe gave me his heart; I would let him keep mine for always. Like a trade-off. He would get really spooked at that. He would throw the basket at me and run away. I figured it was that old Lynx wound that still needed to heal up. At least, I hoped that was the reason. I didn’t want to think that maybe, just maybe, he just didn’t want my dirty, broken, bound-up heart. Every time he would leave my heart and not take it with him, that burst of light would shrink back within it’s binding.

When God would finally get a chance alone with my heart, he started working on all that mud I had caked over the muslin. He would sit over it and with kind, slow hands; he would gently scrub away. Sometimes I would watch in awe, noticing the difference between the way God handled my heart and the way Jake handled my heart. I would tell God, and he would nod and keep working away at that mud.

I started getting on Jake’s case about the way he treated my heart. He would say things like, "Well you are the one who said it was ok for me to take it on a walk. It’s not my fault the basket tipped over."

I would get mad.

"So my heart is like a pet to you? Like a dog that you can beat and it will still come back to you?"

He would get all contrite and look at me with his sad, soft eyes. "I didn’t realize that I hurt it that badly. I’m sorry. I won’t drop it again. I promise."

To his credit, he WAS always very good about putting my heart back safely and with the utmost care wherever I had hidden it. And he respected my rules… never looking too closely at the heart or taking it out of the basket and holding it too closely. Sometimes I think he was afraid to look to close. Maybe afraid that if he held it, it would burn through his skin. Maybe it would have.

In the meantime, I had grown quite attached to his heart. I would often hint that I wanted to keep it, or that it would be a great Christmas present. He would scowl, and rip his heart out of my hands and leave. In those times when he would leave it in my care, I saw it flourish. The large gouge was healing up nicely. The color had deepened. It would sit happily and beat calmly against my hands. I would hold it close to my chest and remember what it had felt like in the old days, when my own heart felt safe inside. But I couldn’t trust anyone’s heart in there anymore. It had not proven to be very safe.

God had finally gotten the last of the mud off when he said, "You know, Melissa… it’s probably not a good idea for you to let Jake take your heart like that whenever he wants to. You need to keep it safe with you. I only gave you one, and I meant it when I asked you to guard it. I understand why you bury it and hide it from others right now, sometimes even yourself. But if you aren’t even ready to put it back where it belongs, inside you… then I hardly think you should be letting Jake borrow it."

I would get mad when God would say things like that, because I would hear the truth inside his words. Plus, I knew how happy my heart was when it was Jake… and how sad it was without him. I didn’t want to let go. God mentioned lots of things. Like… sometimes Jake would come over to borrow my heart and not bring his… and worse… sometimes he would come over and just leave his here and not take mine. It was hard to take care of two hearts… especially when they weren’t in the best of shape.

Then there came a day when God peeled off the first strip of muslin. It hurt so much. It had been on there a while and my heart had grafted to it. It took almost all day. When God finally pulled the last part of the strip away, he said:

"My dear Melissa. Please listen. Letting Jake borrow your heart is really hurting it. You haven’t let him hold it, he hasn’t really taken a good look at it, and he keeps it covered all the time. Every time he takes it, it is happy and it swells with joy…causing the muslin bands to tighten around the heart. It’s making it harder for me to take them off. Your heart isn’t ready to fill like that… It needs to be free of all the bindings before it can love."

"Well what about me? It can love me."

"But you never want to be near it. You hide it every chance you get, and when you’re not hiding it, you’re trying to give it to someone else to take care of. They can’t take off the bindings; they can’t wipe the mud away. Only I can do that. And only if you’ll let me."

Of course, I got defensive. "Well I let you! You were here all the time scrubbing away, and look all of the dirt is gone!"

"Do you want me just to make it better for a short time? Do you want me to remove a strip of muslin one-day, only to come the next day and start all over again. Your heart is getting better Melissa, but I don’t get that much time with it. I love Jake. He is my son, and there is no reason you can not show him parts of your heart as you do with your other friends… but I do not want you to let him have your heart anymore. Not unless he is ready to hold it, and to keep it."
I changed the subject. But everyday he said the same thing. And I was starting to see his point.

"Do you want to be well, Melissa? I will come here every day and I will tend to your heart, if you ask me to. If you want to really be well, than follow me. Listen to me. I want the very best for you and your heart. I love you. I will make you well. I WANT to make you well."

I think God had been talking to Jake about this too… probably in a different way. Maybe pointing out that my heart was in much worse condition than his and that I should let it stay with me and God where it could heal up. Or maybe Jake was starting to feel bad because God was pointing out that it probably wasn’t a good idea to let someone borrow your heart unless you really want to give it to them.

Regardless, one day Jake came over and we held each other’s heart one last time. We decided to no longer lend our hearts out to one another. It felt good to hold his heart one last time and say goodbye. When he left, I didn’t want to give his heart back. He looked at me with such sadness. Understanding. Pity? Maybe. He just whispered gently, "It’s ok. This will be better for us. Give it back, Melissa."

I cried and cried.

But the next day my heart was bleeding less through the muslin and God held it gently, his hand soft and sweet. He said, "We’re getting really close, Melissa. Once we get all the muslin off, we can get put medicine on it and let it feel the cool air and it WILL start to heal. We’ll dress and change the bandage everyday. It’s going to hurt. It’s going to hurt so much, Melissa because we are going to go back before Jake. We are going back before Rob. We will go back to the very first scar, and the very first lash, and the very first bruise. It will hurt so much, but if you let me hold it and let me take care of it, I will make you well."