Twelve: Purified

She scrubbed and scrubbed. Her arms were pink-- raw from a desperate attempt to cleanse herself. She continued to scrub, no longer knowing if it was dirt or skin that was coming off. Not knowing or not caring. The frustration built up inside and her scrubbing intensified. She rubbed harder, pushed with more strength, dug in deeper. Her eyes stung and as the salty tears hit her bloodied arms, she cringed.

Would she ever be clean?

She was so focused on cleaning herself, she didn't even notice when the water began to run clear in the drain... and then when it began to have a hint of red. Her skin felt raw; her heart was raw. She also didn't notice when he came up behind her.

"Will you be clean when you run your veins dry?" he gently asked her, nodding toward the darkening water in the sink.

She whirled around. Terror gripped her heart and a sickening wave of shame washed over her. She couldn't possible let him see her like this. Hair dripping, bathroom floor soaked, blood stains marking the white tiles. She was so... dirty. A brief thought flitted through her mind. Maybe he had different soap, something that could actually cleanse her. But as soon as the thought entered her mind, she tried to push it out. She couldn't possibly ask him for more. Suddenly she realized he had asked her a question she had failed to answer.

She slowly shook her head. No, not even draining her vains would clean her, would it? Her blood wouldn't be enough, would it?

He took a step toward her, "Let me wash you. Let me wash your feet." She shrank away and prayed that the shadows would hide her filth. Chills ran down her spine as she tried to imagine what he saw when he beheld her. A wretched sight, for sure. No, she couldn't let him clean her.

"You can't touch me. I can't let you touch me... much less clean me. I'm so dirty. So sinful. So unworthy. I don't know how many times I've  failed and how many time you've washed me. I can't let you do that again," she finally replied.

He shook his head and took another step toward her. "I've already cleansed you once... and I'll continue to wash you." She cowered; his presence filled the room. Her bottom lip quivered and she struggled to hold her emotions together. He had cleansed her once, paying much to high a price. The very fact that she had to be washed over and over again was shameful... degrading.

She looked up, her face hard like stone. "Not this time. Just give me some time. I'll clean myself." Each sentence seemed to gain momentum; her courage seemed to grow. He shook his head and pulled out a wash basin and a towel. Jesus grabbed a bar of soap-- soap purchased by his blood.

"Beloved, grace isn't handing you the soap and waiting for you to come back purified. Grace is inviting you to let me cleanse you time and time again. You will only be clean when I wash you because my veins were the ones that ran dry for you."

Eleven: Poverty

She eyed the food on the table, feeling a little queasy. Visions of starving children with swollen bellies flashed before her eyes. The obscene amounts of food blurred and she remembered the earnest hugs given to her by skinny children! The smell, though delicious, made her think of the sewer-less neighborhoods... neighborhoods that rarely experienced intoxicatingly good smells.

She glanced at him. He stood in the kitchen, his back toward her, preparing some other dish to bless her with. She was thankful-- of course, she was thankful. How could she NOT be thankful for this special attention and his caring attitude? She couldn't help but notice the expensive candles on the table and the incredible decorations that were scattered throughout the apartment. Why is there so much wealth right here? Why now? Why me? She sighed and tried to focus on what he was saying to her. Something about being so happy she had come.

He turned with a steamy dish of vegetables. He flashed her a dashing smile and brought it to the table. He wiped his hands on the apron, sat down and gently reached for her hands. After a short prayer of true gratitude and humility, he looked up and winked.

"Dig in," he motioned to all the dishes.

She forced a smile and reached for the pasta. She pushed away negative thoughts and tried focusing on him, and trying to recognize and be thankful for this blessing. It didn't take long to know that he was watching her. No... not just watching her, but analyzing her. She gulped and tried to plaster another smile on her face.

But when she looked up, she didn't see anger. He was full of compassion... he was hurting with her and for her... and maybe, because of her. That thought terrified her. She swallowed hard and took a bite. Instantly, a million tastes exploded in her mouth, she had to close her eyes to properly savor the meal before her.

And then, came the stream of hungry eyes, of swollen bellies, of bare feet. Her eyes shot open and their eyes connected.

She knew he knew.

"I'm sorry. I'm really, really sorry," she began mumbling. "This really is delicious, and I really appreciate all the time and energy you put into this... and that you would want to bless me like this... and I'm really, really thankful..."

"But...?" He tenderly prodded.

"But I'm really struggling right now. Why did you invite me? And why didn't you invite them?" She didn't have to specify who 'they' were... he knew them by name. She continued, "I just don't understand why... you've given me more than I deserve. What did I do to be so blessed? And what did they do to... not be?" The words were barely more than a whisper. A tear slowly slipped down her face, but she didn't make a move to wipe it away.

"You see, its not just this one meal... but its everything. You've given me absolutely everything-- so much more than I could ever want or need... and I believe you that I can use it to bless others... but will I ever bless anyone enough to make up for all of my blessings?" She couldn't bare to look up at him.

He whispered her name, commanding her to look up. When she finally did, she saw that he too, was crying, "My precious child. You cannot forget that I love them more than you even can. These are my children too. I know them by name and I see their every tear."

Anger welled up inside her. Before she could stop herself she felt the words pouring out, "Then WHY are they dying every day? WHY do they watch their loved ones die? WHY must the depend on the generosity and mercy of others to simply survive? YOU can fix that!"

As soon as the words were out of her mouth, she regretted it. Pain flashed through his eyes and he looked down. She didn't know what to say, but she didn't have to say anything.

Jesus simply whispered, "This reality is but a fleeting moment... I died for them too."

Ten: Healing

She picked up the photographs and sighed. The memories were overwhelming... they were over-powering. Her hands shook, forcing her eyes closed. But her closed eyes offered no relief... a stream of images flowed through her mind at a sickening pace. Soon, it was too much and her eyes shot open, only to rest on the same photographs.

She groaned and rested her head in her hands. She began mumbling, not knowing that her lips were struggling to voice the thoughts that were tormenting her. The frustration built up and she found herself kicking her memory box over, watching the contents spill on to the carpet. Ticket stubs, receipts, pictures, notes, stones... And then she was back to kicking the memories around in her mind.

Had it really been a year ago? Just twelve months? Why was it a lifetime away? And why was it still so close to her heart?

"But I'm not the same person I was then... I don't want the same things... I'm not looking for that anymore... and yet... yet I feel like a boomerang-- going back to where I came from." A tear slipped down her cheek. She shook her head, trying to shake free from the paralyzing grip of those memories. For a split second it worked. She knew she'd never go back... but she wondered if she'd ever be healed.

She spun around when she heard his footsteps behind her. He eyed her, taking her in... her tear-stained face, the mess surrounding her, her closed fists. Compassion filled his eyes and he took a couple of steps toward her.

She shuddered as his gentle hands loosened her grip on the photograph. She looked away, not wanting to see his reaction to all the spilled memories.

Silence.

And then... then, a small giggle. She slowly turned, desperately wanting to know why he was laughing. She eyed the photograph in his hand and allowed the memory to take her in.

Water soaked her shirt and she shrieked, determined to find revenge. The playful waterfight soon turned into an intense competition. It always was a competition, wasn't it? He finally stopped, looked deep into her eyes, and simply smiled. She relaxed and took a step toward him, finding herself in the midst of a deep, comforting embrace. She rested her head on his chest and allowed her heartbeat to slow, matching his.

Her eyes shot open. Her eyes screamed of fear and she turned to look at him. Anger welled up inside and before she knew it, she was talking to him... she was attacking him.

"Why would you want me to remember that? Why does that make you smile? Don't you get it? Every time he invades my thoughts, he invades me heart... and it hurts. You know this. Don't you care? Don't you see? I can't keep all of these memory catalysts. They tear me apart." She ripped the photograph out of his hand and frantically began stuffing them all back into to box. I'll destroy them this time and maybe then, then I'll be healed.

"It's okay to remember things that made you happy." She froze. His words penetrated and sunk deep into her heart. He continued, "I remember you laughing that day. I remember the way he made you feel. I remember the joy you guys shared. It made me smile."

A tear drop landed on the photograph. Why had she never heard him say that before? Had she ever stopped to listen? How would she ever be free from his grip on her memories if she allowed herself to remember the happy ones too?

There were so many things that had made her happy.

She whispered, "If I keep remembering, then how will I ever find healing?"

Jesus gave her a sympathetic smile, "By running to me. You'll only ever find healing in me. You'll find the strength to forgive in me. You'll find the freedom you're so desperately searching for. You'll be able to remember, and smile... you'll be free from this paralyzing grip... only through me."

Nine: Remember

"Where are we going?" she eagerly asked.

He wordlessly reached for her hand, willing her to trust him. She took it and sighed. Again, he'd lead her somewhere and she'd follow him. As they rode the crowded bus, he kept a lively conversation going. His jokes kept her laughing; his smile comforted; his love embraced.

Suddenly his eyes glanced outside and he stood up. They were there-- wherever 'there' was. As they got off, she looked around her, desperately trying to figure out where they were. She hadn't paid attention to what route the bus had taken.

"Where are we?" she finally asked. The buildings were falling apart and garbage littered the streets. This neighborhood was obviously abandoned. She couldn't understand why anyone would come here.

"You'll see," he shrugged and began walking toward a building that had instantly caught her eye. It looked smaller than the others that neighbored it, yet she sensed that inside there were plenty of rooms. It was a brick structure and she was inexplicably drawn to it.

They walked in and a sickening sense of deja vu overwhelmed her. It seemed strangely familiar, but she had no memory of ever being in this part of town. it was a museum; exhibits filled every room downstairs and she immediately knew there were more upstairs. It was deserted. A growing sense of unease increased her heart rate.

He led her to the first room. A bright room. Sunlight poured in through the windows, as if it were purposed to light up the exhibit. It took her breath away. Beautiful photographs capturing green mountains and lush forests. Small homes in the country. A small gasped escaped from her lips. She knew this place. These were memories. Her memories. A small smile crept on her face as she allowed herself to be drawn into those comforting photographs of her childhood. She soon closed her eyes, allowing her memory to create the greatest exhibit.

A gentle tap on her shoulder reminded her that there were plenty of rooms left to see.

"You've realized that this isn't actually a museum. Its your mind and your heart... your memories. Not every room will make you smile like that one did. But I want you to walk through the memories and sort through the pain, glories, failures and joy." He stopped in front of the next one.

A combination of displays were scattered throughout. As she focused on each display she realized what she was being asked to remember. Her firsts. Her first trip to the beach. her first day of school. First week at camp. First basketball game. First camping trip. Then there were other firsts. Her first kiss. First goodbye. First nightmare. First day crying at school. First severed friendship. First broken promise. First grudge. First insecurity. First bitterness. First wall...

She shuddered and tried to walk away, but his gentle touch guided her to the right-- another exhibit. She sighed and took a deep breath. Before she had shaken the sensations from the previous exhibit, the new images began to register in her mind: she was staring at her lasts. Her last school play. Last basketball game. Last night at youth group. Last spring break. last day of high school. A strong sense of nostalgia washed over her as she contemplated all the completed chapters... those seasons that she'd never live through again, and could only revisit in memories.

He reached for her hand and gave it a light squeeze. Then he broke the silence, "Next we're going to walk through some specific painful ones." Everything in her recoiled and she instinctively pulled her hand away. She gave her head a slight shake and already felt her eyes watering. She knew which exhibits she'd find upstairs. Change. Her. Him. Africa. Goodbyes. Another him. She blinked real hard, yet the pounding in her chest reminded her that he was waiting for her to follow. And she would... she'd follow him anywhere.

"I'm scared," she whispered, "I don't-- I don't want to see how much healing I still have left to go through. I don't want to be reminded. I wanted to leave it behind. Why must I remember?"

"Because you need to remember if you ever hope to heal," he murmured.

She searched for the right words. Her heart continued to flip violently, causing her thoughts to scatter. Finally she managed, "I don't want to open that door. I don't want to see how much sadness I've locked in there. I don't want to grieve." And even as she said this, she noticed she was already following him up the staircase.

He flipped the light switch on and she didn't notice it illuminate the display as much as she sensed a bright light flooding her soul. A drowning sensation overcame her and her eyes brimmed with tears. Had she really changed that much? Were those all really people she had said goodbye to? Did she really hurt her that much? Did she ever really forgive her? Had she really lied to him? Did she really compromise? Had she really been that stubborn? And had she really pushed him-- her closest friend-- away?

She didn't know she was crying until she pursed her lips and tasted saltiness. She didn't try to move. She didn't attempt an escape. She didn't even look away. She just sat there... in her sadness.

And Jesus simply sat with her, unwilling to lead her out of these memories quite yet, for there were still lessons to be learned.

Eight: A reply

My Beloved,

I miss you. I miss you. I miss you.

It seems like its been forever since we last hung out-- since we last talked. The friendship we used to share now simply seems like a trace of an event, somewhere in a distant memory.

What happened to you? Why did you leave? Why did you forget? Why did you choose to say goodbye?

I told you once I'd always love you. I never thought I'd have to say it twice. But here I am, once again, begging you to believe me when I tell you that I love you... I love you more than love itself. I love you. You used to trust me when I said I'd never hate you. You used to believe me when I said I was proud of you. You held my hand like a child, trusting her father. You said you loved me, and I know you meant it.

But as minutes turned to hours and hours turned to days... New Year's rolled around, and our daily conversations turned to weekly, and then monthly appointments. I'd push the urge to cry away, telling myself that I wanted you to choose. I wanted you to choose me.

But you didn't.

Instead, I watched you cry over your broken heart, as if the salty tears could cure your wounds. I watched you toss and turn night after night, wishing the sun would rise. I watched you wrinkle your nose and hate yourself every time you passed a mirror. I watched you need your makeup and place a price tag on yourself each morning as you prepared to face the world. I watched you force a smile, choke back the tears, and give yourself away.

I watched and watched until my tears blurred my eyes.

And the tears came-- pouring out of the deepest part of me. And down came the healing rain. And I begged you to let me clean you. I begged you to let me enter. I begged you to break free and dance in this rain, in my rain.

Let me see your broken heart. I want to see all of the pieces. Stop thinking that I don't want to see them. I want to see you-- just as you are. All of you. Every piece of you. I don't want to see you whole, I want to see you real. You can't ever be too broken. Let me cure your wounds. Let my healing rain to fall on you... let it fall in and through cracks... let me break through the dams of fear you've built... let me flood you. Let me give you rest and teach you the kind of love that casts out fear. Let me break your shallow mirrors and show you how I see you. Let me tell you... tell you the price that was paid for you. Let me fix your smile, fill you with joy and give you back your wasted years.

I don't care where you've been. I don't care what you've done. And though you don't believe me, I've heard your whispered prayers each night. I'm here, and I'm just waiting for you to turn around. Stop trying to fix yourself.

Give me a chance to give your dreams wings.

Forever Yours.

Seven: Fear

"You know, I always wanted to be a dancer," she remarked as they drove past a dance studio.

He glanced at her out of the corner of his eye, gave her a knowing smile and turned his focus back to the road in front.

"They're just so... beautiful. I never knew a body could move with such grace and dignity... their movements speak louder than any words possibly could. It's as if the very core-- the essence-- of who they are is speaking... in its own language. You know what I mean?" she asked him.

A slight nod.

Fine, she'd keep talking if he didn't feel like keeping a conversation going.

"But you know what my favorite part of dancing is? I love watching couples dance. I love watching him lead and how she follows... he could drop her or step on her or make her look like a fool, and yet she follows, always follows... And he? He treats her with such tenderness, but always with strength... It's quite beautiful..." her thoughts drifted as she imagined dancing. She couldn't honestly say she ever would ever feel that comfortable... dancing was so--

"It takes a lot of courage to push past fear when dancing," he quietly interrupted her thoughts. And yet, it wasn't really an interruption; it was more of a continuation of her thoughts... it was exactly what she was thinking: dancing is so courageous.

"Why do you fear?" he prodded. The question sank into the air. It didn't float; it just was... And though she heard the question, she couldn't help asking, "what?" He didn't bother to repeat himself because he knew, just as well as she, that she had understood perfectly.

Too perfectly.

This wasn't about dancing. It was about being courageous... with her heart. Why did she fear?

"I... uhhh... because... I don't understand love. I don't understand your love." What was she talking about? Love. The strongest force in the universe. Love. Could love conquer fear? How could she overcome fears she couldn't even pinpoint? Her thoughts came to a halt as she searched her heart.

As if on cue, the car rolled to a stop at a traffic light. He turned to face her, but she refused to meet his gaze. He placed his hand on her leg and gently called her name. When she refused to look up, Jesus simply whispered, "You're right. If you understood my love... you'd understand the power to cast out fear."

The car nudged forward and she glanced up just in time to see the green light.

Six: Trust

“Do you trust me… even with this?” he gently asked her. And though everything in her was screaming to say yes, she slowly shook her head. She couldn’t find a way to trust him. Not with this. She wanted to, but trust meant letting go… and somehow, she couldn’t find a way to release her grip. She bit her lip and looked away. It was too hard to meet his gaze… especially if she couldn’t trust him. His silence suggested that he wanted her to speak… to explain herself. Great. She wasn’t too skilled at explaining herself around him—everything jumbled itself and she always ended up rambling. Well, if he really wanted to know, she’d do her best to make some sense of the colorful emotions swirling around within…

“You see, things are a lot cleaner when they don’t involve people I love. It’s easy to say I’ll trust you with anything, when ‘anything’ doesn’t seem to directly affect me.” Pause. Wait, that seemed… cowardly. How could she claim to trust him when it cost her nothing? Had she always been this… scared? Was it even considered “trust” if there were no substantial consequences of any kind? Alrighty, then. She’d have to try the whole explaining thing over… “I guess I’ve learned that nothing I know does anything for me unless it directly affects what I do or how I feel. And lately, I’ve been reminded of plenty of things that I know, but it just makes me uneasy. You ask for everything. Do you have any idea how much ‘everything’ entails? I got used to the idea of you wanting my broken pieces so you could put me back together… but why do ask for the good and healthy parts? Why? Why do you want those I love most? I swear, they aren’t distracting me…”

Stupid ramblings. She glanced away. Away seemed to clear her head… kind of. Again, she made no sense at all. But how was it supposed to make sense when he asked not only for her worst but also… for her best? How was she supposed to explain that she was happy to give him everything she despised… but why did he want everything she loved too?

All or nothing.

Was that it? She was incapable of giving all, but she was selfish enough to be unhappy with nothing. Maybe she could convince herself that she had given everything… or at least that she was trying to give everything… maybe that’d be enough.

All or nothing.

Uneasily, she glanced up to see if he was watching her. Of course he was. But he was waiting. Simply waiting. It always came down to this. He’d wait for her… forever, if that’s what it took. And she? She’d fight him… forever. Why did she want him so badly and yet fight him with her failing strength? I believe, help my unbelief. Ahh, the paradox… Could they have a relationship free of these contradictions? Die to yourself. I’ll give you life. How? Why must HIS life follow HER death?

“Ok, all or nothing. I get it. I want all. I want everything. I want to give you everything. I promise that’s what I want… but how come I’m so incapable of anything? You ask for all and I seem to only give you nothing. I’m so sick of being unable to let go, but— ”

“Letting go gives a better grip.” He finished the sentence for her. “I’ve told you that my grace is sufficient. You’ve told me that you believe that. But I have one question for you… Do you believe it enough to become weak? Do you believe it enough to embrace your weakness and allow my grace to be enough?” His eyes searched hers.

She blinked, unable to find a proper response. Embrace weakness. Become weak. Trust. Breathing got inexplicably harder as the air around her seemed to thicken. Could she let go enough? Did she trust him enough to let him knock down her crutches and let him catch her as she fell?

“Crutches. I’m on crutches and I’m just scared to lean on you instead. Only injured people need crutches. I…need…crutches…” The thoughts rushed together. She could see them coming together. Dotted lines and arrows. Thought bubbles and sticky notes. Yes, she could see her thoughts flowing together…

His tilted chin showed that he was interested in following her train of thought. Complex, yes. He patiently waited, knowing she’d continue… “You’ve asked if I’m willing to let go. If I’ll trust you with… this. I don’t know what that kind of trust looks like. Quite frankly, I’m not even sure I’m capable of it… but I’m broken. I’m on crutches. I’m… weak. I guess, that’s the whole point. I can’t do it and you know that I can’t. Agh. I wish you’d just ask for something I could do. But trust me when I say this… as much as I know how, I want to trust you. I wish I could release my grip...”

He smiled. Jesus smiled. “My power is made perfect in weakness.”