Relationships are sort of terrifying.

You offer your story, palms up and heart wide open, to someone you care about and then… wait. In that moment of stillness and uncertainty you wait for them to respond with what they think about you.

You could choose which parts of yourself to share and which parts to omit, but true courage means sharing everything – the broken pieces with jagged edges, the pieces smoothed by constant waves of grace – without knowing how it’s going to be received.

That act of vulnerability is the terrifying bit. Allowing yourself to be seen with the risk of being wounded isn’t exactly comfortable. And you have to do it over and over and over.

And over.

Unlike the unknown that can hang in the air after a hard conversation between two regular ol’ humans, God loves me no matter what. He knew I’d choose everything other than Him sometimes (and more times than I’d like to admit) and yet – He chooses me. He pursues me.

Relentlessly.

I see Him romancing my heart in soft, ivory roses slowly opening all over my living room, bushy dog tails like helicopter blades thudding against my legs, and words strung together so poetically tears spring to my eyes. God knows what I love and He knew me before I started acknowledging Him. He knew I’d delight in these little things, and He wanted me to with a heart open to an ain’t-ever-gonna-let-me-down kind of love. The kind of love that would encourage me to fearlessly embrace both the beautiful simplicity and rich complexity life has to offer.

Yet this world – it’s broken.

It likes to be closed off, encouraging us to keep our fists clenched and our hearts at arms-length from each other. Don’t get too close, the world warns. You’re setting yourself up for disappointment! Heartache!

But Jesus; He stretched his arms wide and opened his hands to put that brokenness back in its place.

His clothes were ripped off his back, his body whipped raw and on display for all to see as he hung over the crowd, hands brutally pierced by thick, barbaric nails to hold him on the cross. He loved us so much, and wanted us to be free so fiercely, that he was willing to be wounded over and over and over.

And over.

 

Lately I’ve been thinking a lot about waiting.

Waiting for wedding season to start, for a boy to text me back, even for the timer on my electric toothbrush to go off. Two minutes can feel like forever when I’m trying to crawl into bed.

There’s nothing I can do about any of those things, except change how I think about them.

I don’t want to wish away days I’m privileged to spend with friends because I don’t have crazy amounts of work due immediately. I don’t want to wish away days I get to play with babies and then go home to a bed I have yet to share with anyone. I hear sleep is a hot commodity when you become a parent.

I don’t want to wait with a heavy heart, throwing my hands up in annoyance when life doesn’t go as I think it should. I don’t want to be pining over things I know will come but just aren’t here yet.

This past Saturday was one big waiting game.

Good Friday was a mixture of prayer and reflection with many episodes of White Collar thrown in while I lay under blankets with copious amounts of hot lemon & honey. I was sick, and apart from going to church that day, I spent the majority of my time in bed. Saturday was much the same with the exception that I ran an errand to pick up lamb for my family’s Easter dinner and ended up bringing 36 white roses home with me as well.

I can’t imagine what the day after Jesus’ death was like. Did the apostles get it? Did they think it was all over? Did they have even a sliver of hope after everything that happened on Friday? Surely they would have known Jesus wouldn’t let them down! They got to sit down for meals with Jesus, share good jokes they heard with him, ask him to pass the wine, hug him goodnight. Maybe even high-five the guy. Jesus taught them so much about himself, and yet they seemed to lose hope just a day after they had been by his side.

I knew Sunday was coming.

I know what happened after Friday, after heaven counted to three.

I know Jesus is good on his promises.

And yet I spend many days as if he didn’t follow through on his word.

I harbor what-should-have-happened-by-twenty-three thoughts in the back of my mind. They come out on days like Saturday, where the tangible ache of Jesus’ sacrifice fills every room. That darkness is real and the devil would’ve liked it to stay that way, so he tries to keep the light out – that’s when the I should’ve done this, I never should’ve done that, I need to do this statements start filling my mind.

But God has shown he loves me no matter what. He has shown he will take care of me over and over and over.

And over.

 

I hid the roses in my office, waiting until the wee hours of Sunday morning to bring them out.

I knew they were there. I knew what was coming.

I’d like to think whenever I smell rose petals, or brush dog hair off my jeans, or savour an exquisite sentence, I’ll be reminded of how God has done a whole lot more than romance me with the little things. Jesus is a man good with follow-through. He trampled over death, telling it who’s boss, so we’d know, with no uncertainty, that he’d always be here for us.

Palms up & heart wide open.