Revelations Of An Empty Tummy
It’s been seven days since I started fasting my dinners and praying. And for what purpose and end, you might ask? Frankly, I don't know.
It was in conversation with a dear friend walking through deep relational heartbreak that we decided to do so, but I placed no expectations on the outworking of revelation in consequence. Because undoubtedly, answers will unfold differently than expected. As is often the case with the best of intentions on our human end, but cheekily guided elsewhere by the Holy Spirit.
What we decided, was to fast and pray for our husbands.
I love that the natural response to this is a giant eye roll. Believe me, it’s mine as well.
Who, but a pollyanna prays for what is essentially, a unicorn dream? Someone who is my perfect person? Please. Most of us, myself included, have been so emotionally battered and beaten, that the thought of such a godly relationship, although deeply desired, is overshadowed by an overwhelming sense of jadedness and hopelessness which make it nothing more than a pipe dream. Someone else’s happily ever after.
And even if we do find a person, there is still no guarantee that the relationship will mature, be healthy, or even right. The variables for a relationship actually getting off the ground are discouraging, at best.
And what of happiness? What of relationships needing and taking a tremendous amount of work to stay communicative, healthy, and vibrant?
We receive countless mixed and contradicting messages from every theological and cultural corner on these points. And I wonder, do I really want this?
So we have to ask, what are reasonable relational expectations between a man and a woman in light of their potential for goodness, but also tremendous heartache?
Because, for most of us God-fearing, attempting to follow Jesus women, a man of the same ilk feels as illusory as a mythical faun. Creatures from the days of yore. And to find one with enough bearing and fortitude of identity to pursue a strong, beautiful, spirited woman without her fearing his manipulation or passiveness?
Fling, upon hook-up, upon tired, broken-record relationship proved this inprobable.
Yet both of us were at a place of just being tired of complaining. Yes, the situation was and is distressing, but we both tired of the hopelessness; the sense of relational confusion, floundering, and timidity.
Recognizing that these are spiritual infections of the heart, we knew our most powerful, active stance could be made in intentional prayer and fasting. But still, there remained such a gaping, hurting whole in my heart that I recoiled at having to take a submissive role in praying for men. At large, I've found their inability to get themselves together emotionally and relationally to be downright passive and paltry.
YET, grace.
Where is your grace, Grace.
How are your own relational inabilities excusing and pitiable?
Put down your rocks, Grace. I know you’ve been hurt, and I know why you’re so angry. I know men have hurt you. I’m so sorry. I do not excuse them. They will answer for how they’ve hurt you.
But know that hurt people hurt, and hurt others.
It’s the legacy of brokenness that I never wanted. You’re not immune to this brokenness, as a giver or a receiver. So I want you to put down your rocks of condemnation, and I want you to look at me. I want to heal your wounds so that you can trust me again; so that you can know that I am good.
Suffice it to say that this week of solitude and fasting has already begun to shift my prayers from those shrouded in self-pity, to those peppered with wisdom and clarifying perspective.
And interestingly enough, very few of my prayers have been targeted at calling my husband out of confusion and into purpose and vision, albeit good when they have. Rather, most have centered around deep repentance, honesty regarding relational discrepancies between the God head and I, and a genuine cry of the heart to be healed.
To be able to love, and to trust, and to feel again; to restore relational intimacy, perhaps for the first time.
So although I am committed to praying for my husband in this season, I’m finding that my heart drifts away from that intention nearly every evening. In a way that is both alien and familiar, I am brought to a place of worship. A place of genuine honesty and ravishing tears. A place of quiet safety and solitude. A place, I believe and hope to be, of healing.
Because more than a man, I need God. More than security, I need connection. And more than companionship, I need communion.
