It’s a pattern I’ve seen repeated in e-mails and in my own life more times than I care to count.
I don’t mind being broken; my problem is I hate feeling defective.
This past week has been full of emotional turmoil. Wounds have been ripped open and new ones formed. I’ve spent all week trying to pack on bandaids waiting until I had time to sit down and process the events and figure out where to go from here. Then, I guess I forgot.
What started as deliberate ignorance turned into pure ignorance. Life went back to normal until Sunday morning.
Five minutes into the sermon, I felt like God had ripped my broken heart out of my chest so He could fix it Himself. I spent the next thirty minutes dabbing my eyes with my gloves, trying not to breathe too deeply, and praying for the sermon to be over.
After service, I tried to reclaim my heart and act like nothing ever happened. I’ll take care of it when I get home, I thought. That didn’t work. Before long, I found myself searching for my pastor. In those moments, I started to realize the severity of what had happened and the damage that had been done. My search began to turn desperate.
That’s when he showed up again.
Pull yourself together, Jessica. Grow up!
You should have seen this coming. You should have known better.
You are making a big deal out of nothing.
Quit bothering people with your stuff. You’re such a drama queen. They have better things to do with their time than to deal with you.
That last one almost got me. As I made my way up to the pastor’s office, I felt like an idiot. I felt like some needy, dysfunctional, annoying child. I spotted my pastor, but by that point my resolve had weakened drastically. He was in the middle of conversation with someone else. I felt like an unwelcome pest and part of me just wanted to run for the door.
He saw me. He came. He greeted me and welcomed me into his office. As soon as I took my seat, all I could do was cry. I took tissue after tissue wiping mascara and snot off my face. Well, this is real mature, Jessica. I found myself apologizing… incessantly. I felt stupid. I felt bad for involving him. I felt guilty. I felt horrible. I felt like an inconvenience; like a burden.
I hate feeling like a burden, and I know I am not alone.
Women e-mail me, and somewhere in many of those e-mails is the word, “Sorry.”
Sorry to bother you.
Sorry this is so long.
Sorry to take up your time.
Sorry to ask so many questions.
Sorry if my thoughts aren’t together.
Sorry to be such a pest.
Why are we so sorry?
We are in the process of a journey to freedom. We are encouraged to find fellowship in community. If all of this is so good, why are we so sorry? That’s the question for the masses today.