Hole-y Ground

On Saturday I fell into a hole.  I don't mean the figurative kind where you say, "Sorry I haven't called in a while but I basically fell into a hole and now I'm back," but the real kind on a concrete sidewalk where you twist an ankle and skin your knee.  And, it wasn't a graceful fall but more like the ones typical of Kermit where his arms would fly up in the air and his hat would fly off and he would fly down to the ground with a thud.  And when I hit the ground, I did not play it cool (or brave, or tough) but instantly began wailing in pain, rolling on the muddy, rainy ground, repeating over and over "it hurts, it hurts, it hurts" as my Dad (and faithful running partner) wondered if he'd have to flag down a passing motorist to carry his permanently crippled daughter home.  He stood warmly, with his hands on my shoulders, and I just cried and cried.  At some point in there, I knew I'd probably walk again, maybe even in the next few minutes, but something felt so good about really sobbing out the pain, because, you know, I had just fallen into a hole and all.

In high school, I had a mid-scrimmage fall on the soccer field where the whole field heard the pop of my ACL tearing in half.  (gross, huh?)  When I landed, it hurt like a...like a person falling in a hole (: and I couldn't move.  But I didn't cry then.  Actually, I laughed and then laughed more and started laughing hysterically because I couldn't dare cry.  I was playing soccer with boys and they couldn't see me cry, I had an image to maintain.  I had to be tough!  Take that you sorry ole torn ACL and cartilege...is that all you've got?  It turned out that I didn't get to play soccer again for a whole year.

My Christian life is so often like high school warrior Jane, more comfortable ignoring or denying pain and desperately needing any onlookers to see "I've got this handled!"  I don't actually say that, of course, but what I do is provide summary statements of how fine I am or know I will be in just a minute, and by the way, this is how God is using this to teach me about "X"...I guess I'm afraid if I acknowledge my fear, or disappointment, or helplessness it will mean that my faith is weak?

What I am starting to see is that the Gospel actually includes things like Jesus saying, "Lord, take this cup from me!" or catches Jesus weeping over the death of Lazarus even though He knows He is about to raise Lazarus from the dead.  Maybe this is because God's story includes the Fall in the process of redemption.  He takes a creation that He called "very good"(Genesis 1) and makes it "complete, perfect, not lacking anything"(James 1), through suffering to glory.  He doesn't have to deny the pain or fake it away because He knows where it is headed.  He can scream in agony on the cross, "Why have you forsaken me?" because the resurrection is coming and honest, agonizing suffering is part of this redemptive story.  Sin and rebellion in my heart, (and wicked sidewalks with uncovered water meters!), earthquakes and death and divorce and...they really, really hurt and I don't have to make the choice between preserving an image or being honest.

My faith is indeed weak, as I feared, when it rests on my performance and image and not His.  Because it is His image being drawn out in me, over time, by His performance, I can be honest in the process.  I can scream "OW!" and "Stop that!" in the suffering, trusting that He is with me all the while.  So, I guess there was something beautifully symbolic in wailing even more than I had to in the dark of the morning Saturday in my sweet, patient dad's embrace. Dad could handle my buffoonery, both in the fall and absurd response. I didn't have to be brave, or impress him, or be cool.  He did not need for me to provide a full assessment of my actual injuries or when they would be fully healed.  I could remain on the ground a little longer, with a little less dignity, because my dad was there and wouldn't leave me.  I eventually got up, walked awkwardly at first and even jogged in the last mile.  (Which also was stupid because now my ankle is quite swollen.)

Because I can't resist a terrible pun:   It seems that the muddy, undignified sidewalk, in contrast to the soccer field, was in fact the holy ground because that was where the image of the father was able to shine.