Hatred is like a drug. It gives you a manic high producing energy you never knew you possessed. And after the wave of fervent disdain passes you are left almost shaking from withdrawal. Now what, you muse. What should I do. How can I make them hurt. Suddenly you realize who you've become and it isn't pretty. You repent and go back to the drawing board.
I've never been a runner. Ever. I've always been what the dancing world lovingly refers to as a "chesty" girl. Needing to don two or three sports bras to be able to jog pain free has always deterred me from wanting to take up the northwest popularity that is jogging. I'm not a runner, I decided. I'm just not. Of course, it's easy not to be something if you've never tried it. I am not a guitar player either, but something tells me if I bought a guitar and signed up for lessons I could become, in at least some sense, a guitar player. So, in an effort to make up for the loss of my gym membership and to try and find a way to make some use of the anger fermenting inside of me I started jogging. Walking mostly, with intermittent spurts of jogging. This is a pattern I've taken on in years past, a sort of long walk with moments of increased heart rate. Very casual, very me. Only something has shifted inside of me and I'm finding that I want to run more than I want to walk. Something about the funeral that recently occurred in my heart has given me a drive to push my body in a way I never thought possible. Like I said, I'm not a runner. And here I am looking forward to getting off work and going home to go for a run. Humor, indeed.
I have also managed to cut sugar out of my diet, cold turkey. For a gal who ate an average of three pastries a day at Starbucks this was no small feat. I've spent my entire life indulging an addiction to sugar. Much like my unhealthy affinity for Arabic men and designer dresses, it needed to be waned, slowly for some, excessively extreme for me. I don't do things halfway, I'm an all or nothing kind of girl. If we're friends I'll pick you up at the airport at four in the morning. If we're not friends, I won't even comment on your facebook wall. It's that simple. So I, for whatever reason, being fed up I suppose, decided sugar was not an option and that was that. I remembered the story my parents used to tell me of how they got me to stop using my bottle when I was a little girl. "Princesses don't use bottles," I was told. So I took the bottle out of my mouth right then and there and threw it in the trash can, never to be looked at again. No one could ever accuse me of being a woman of inaction.
See, the upside of anger is that it drives you, it motivates you to extremes you'd otherwise be too cautious to venture out and try. I delight in how nervous people get over the word hate. They fear the connotations of admitting such strong disdain for someone and always justify their animosity with the lighthearted "Oh, I don't hate them, I just don't really like them." Oh dear heart, haven't you heard of a little book called the dictionary? And I quote: "Hate: to dislike intensely or passionately; feel extreme aversion for or extreme hostility toward; detest." You do hate them. You just feel like you're bad for hating them. You're not bad, you're real. We're human, we err, we sin, it pains us to forgive. It hurts our prideful wounded egos. Poor us.
This just in, it's not our job to handle the sins committed against us. That's what the Big G is for. He is our God of justice. He gives us a double recompense for our former trouble, He causes our enemies to flee before us, He promises that no word formed against us shall prosper but shall be shown in the wrong. Take that you narcissistic, insecure, conniving bitches! Oh, forgive me, Father. I'm to love my enemies, bless those who curse me, do good to those who hate me and pray for those who spitefuly use and persecute me. No problem. Let me just open up my can of selfless whoop ass and I'll be right with you.
Hmm. Actually, that's no small order, Big G. I think I'm gonna need some back up. Aw, your Holy Spirit? Thank GOD. Literally. Lord knows I can't handle those bitches myself. Yeah, I know, you know that. And yes, I know you know they're bitches, but that doesn't mean I should call them that. Thank you for calling me your beloved instead of your insecure, spiteful, whining baby. I'll take the power of life over death in the tongue for 500, Lord.
So how do I do this. How do I muster up the strength to continue praying for the one I now dread ever crossing paths with again. Do you have any idea what that feels like? Think of the person who hurt you the most in your life. Think of that time when you felt like your world was falling around you and the one person who offered their hand to help you, the one person you trusted to protect you, cowardly pushed you aside just as you managed to get out before the building collapsed on top of you. Now, the one you believed you could trust is in fact the one you need protection from. How do you pray for such a villain? Adding insult to injury, just to REALLY test the color of your heart you discover unknown deception, slander, lies and discrepancies shattering any semblance of trust or hope concerning an individual you once mistakenly believed delighted in you.
Come on, man! Can't I just get lost in a sea of new lovers? Do I have to pray for this self indulgent, childish, inconsistent son of a.....
Sorry. Habit. I know, I know.
Sigh.
Do I have to pray for this... child of God?
YES.
Grumble, grumble.
I can do all things through Christ who gives me strength. I can be a bad ass Stephen, uttering my last breaths for those throwing the stones that slay me, Lord, do not charge them with this sin. I am more than a conqueror with You.
Thank you for believing in me. Thank you for seeing what so many will never know. If you can change my heart, you can make any mountain fall. You already have. And I'm trying not to forget that it all started when I believed it would.
Selah.
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