Several years ago, I was drafted into a six year tour of hell called divorce. One evening about half way through, I was home alone watching one of those sad, sappy love stories, the kind people wallow in when they’re miserable and lonely. Right about the time when the hero rescues the damsel in distress, an unbearable weight of loss pressed in on me. I felt like it would break me in half. I began to sob.
“I can’t take it. I can’t take this. It hurts too much.”
No man is tempted beyond that which he can bear.
I hate it when the voice of God horns in on a perfectly good pity party. This night in particular, I was in no mood to be placated. For me, pain is not a tolerant friend, nor does it mince words, and this night it drove me to speak with blunt honesty.
“How would you know?” I challenged. “You’ve never been in love.”
I was tempted in the same way as all men.
I wiped my nose on my sleeve. “Is that so? Cause, you know, I don’t remember that in my Bible. When did you fall in love with a woman, Jesus, and she didn’t love you back? Who broke your heart? What was her name.”
“It was you,” he answered softly, “You break it every day. But I’m not going to stop loving you. I’m not going to leave you.”
And there it was. The heart of Christ, laid bare.
The intimacy of that moment changed me, changed the course of my life. And it changed how I view my relationship with Jesus forever.
Let me say, I’m no Theologian. And I’m not a Bible Scholar. I’m not even someone who reads their Bible every single day.
I’m an artist, so I see things through the eyes of an artist.
I’m a woman, so I see things through the eyes of a woman.
And I’ve been abandoned, so I know what it means to be alone in a really scary world.
I know how it feels to be left behind.
And I know I need a hero.
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