"I'm falling apart,
I'm barely breathing,
with a broken heart,
that's still beating..."
I'm barely breathing,
with a broken heart,
that's still beating..."
I can't hear Lifehouse's "Broken," without remembering.
It's been almost two decades now, but the moment is seared on my fingertips. The pattern of the damask on the love seat where I was sitting that day burned into my flesh. The light coming through the mullioned panes in the bay window. The fragrance of steam rising from the teacup poised at my lips.
This was the setting for my "crisis of faith." You see, if there was one thing I'd been sure of -- my entire childhood -- it was that I would do anything for my family. I would allow myself to be shattered into a million pieces, if it would hold us all together. And I was convinced, that I had done, just that. I was sure that, because I had put my love for my family before everything else, I was heeding the voice of an overarching universal Love. For in this place of loving them most, I felt detached from the suffering, the sadness, the loneliness of it all.
But that day, almost 30 years after the suffering had subsided, I heard words I never imagined, "you know, I really never felt that I loved you as a child…"
How could that be. How could I have sacrificed everything for someone who could blithely admit that I'd never been loved -- much less, appreciated for all I'd gone through. I felt betrayed. Not by this person who was so oblivious to the fissure she'd set off in the fragile shell of my heart, but by God.
How could God have let me suffer so persistently, when the one I was devoted to helping, didn't even love me. It was more than I could bear. I felt as if I could actually feel the small cracks inside tear through my being. I wondered if I would survive the moment without going insane. Madness insinuated itself at every turn. The fight I'd waged against disassociation for most of my life, was taking me down for the count. It seemed likely that this battle was on the verge of ending -- with me in a straightjacket.
For so many years, I'd survived by holding on to the promise that God loved me, and that even if I couldn't understand the reason for my circumstances, I could cling to the hope that the love that I had for my family was more than enough evidence of God's presence in my life, to keep me safe and sane.
The days that followed this careless moment of confession were surreal. I wandered through my days in a haze of "just keep it together, Kate. Don't let anyone know you are losing your mind. You have children, you have a career, you have responsibilities. You can do this, you did it as a girl, you can do it now." But I couldn't. As a girl, I'd had God. I'd held on to the promise of spiritual purpose. Without God, I had nothing.
As the madness descended, I disappeared. I hid in my work, I escaped into a closet where darkness was a friend and the voices that hissed, "you were never loved…" were somewhat drowned out by the sound of silence. I wept for the death of hope. I mourned the loss of my one truth -- I'd been loved, it had all been for a divine purpose.
One of our neighbors was a grief counselor, and although I didn't feel comfortable pouring out my whole miserable life story to her, I found myself wandering over for tea -- often. I needed to know that someone out there cared about those of us who felt bereft and completely lost in sadness.
I listened intently as she talked about the books she was reading, the exercises she used to help her clients heal, the messages that made a difference. But nothing was finding its way through the sharp cracks in my heart, and reaching the soft flesh of my pain.
Then one day, while sitting in my dark little closet under the eaves -- and yes, it really was a closet. I felt something begin to rustle in my heart. It was like the light I was hoping would reach in through the cracks from without, was pouring out through them from within. There was a warm feeling of love, a soft light, radiating outward. It burnished the edges of each fissure and caused them to glow like fire-touched shards of ancient pottery.
All the hope I had for being healed by a system, a person, a message of comfort was obscured by the power of this inner surety -- I had been loved by God. A clear knowing that I was, in those moments of crucifixion, the very love of God being shown to my family -- regardless of what they thought, saw, or felt about me.
The fissures in my heart became the windows of my soul. I was not hiding in the dark, waiting for the light of day to stave off the madness, I was the light. I was not the shattered shell. I was the inner light -- the divine magna -- bursting forth from within.
My crisis of faith was over. I knew that nothing could ever -- again -- deprive me of who I was. I was not the object of love. I was not a child hoping, waiting, praying to be loved. I was the very love of Love. This had always been my purpose, my identity, my life -- all along.
I had not let go. I had held on long enough. I had not lost my faith in God. I had found a new sense of who I was in relation to God. My love for God and my trust in His love for me, was never going to be a guarantee that I would feel loved by others. Nor would it justify the sacrifices made. My love for God and his love for me was enough. It was, in fact, everything. It always had been, and now, it always would be.
Every time I read this statement from Mary Baker Eddy's Science and Health with Key to the Scriptures, I smile. I had long thought that if God loved me, I would find a place where there were no disappointments or woes. But I have since discovered that this is exactly where my most profound spiritual discoveries actually have their beginnings:
"Our disappointments
and ceaseless woes,
turn us like tired children
to the arms of divine Love,
then we begin to learn life
in divine Science."
My "crisis of faith" was not an interruption of my love for God, my faith in His omnipotent goodness, or my trust in his care. It was actually the beginning of a higher and deeper understanding of how invulnerable my relationship to Love, and my purpose as Love's reflection, is.
I remember, some years ago -- after having this experience -- hearing of Mother Teresa's crisis of faith. I understood. It is possible to love God supremely, to give your life to His service and the care of his children, and still be shattered by the suffering in the world - your own or that of others. But it is this breaking open of the heart, that allows compassion to pour out with with greater understanding.
And I -- for one -- am grateful for every opportunity to draw closer to Him.
offered with Love and profound gratitude,
Kate
It's been almost two decades now, but the moment is seared on my fingertips. The pattern of the damask on the love seat where I was sitting that day burned into my flesh. The light coming through the mullioned panes in the bay window. The fragrance of steam rising from the teacup poised at my lips.
This was the setting for my "crisis of faith." You see, if there was one thing I'd been sure of -- my entire childhood -- it was that I would do anything for my family. I would allow myself to be shattered into a million pieces, if it would hold us all together. And I was convinced, that I had done, just that. I was sure that, because I had put my love for my family before everything else, I was heeding the voice of an overarching universal Love. For in this place of loving them most, I felt detached from the suffering, the sadness, the loneliness of it all.
But that day, almost 30 years after the suffering had subsided, I heard words I never imagined, "you know, I really never felt that I loved you as a child…"
How could that be. How could I have sacrificed everything for someone who could blithely admit that I'd never been loved -- much less, appreciated for all I'd gone through. I felt betrayed. Not by this person who was so oblivious to the fissure she'd set off in the fragile shell of my heart, but by God.
How could God have let me suffer so persistently, when the one I was devoted to helping, didn't even love me. It was more than I could bear. I felt as if I could actually feel the small cracks inside tear through my being. I wondered if I would survive the moment without going insane. Madness insinuated itself at every turn. The fight I'd waged against disassociation for most of my life, was taking me down for the count. It seemed likely that this battle was on the verge of ending -- with me in a straightjacket.
For so many years, I'd survived by holding on to the promise that God loved me, and that even if I couldn't understand the reason for my circumstances, I could cling to the hope that the love that I had for my family was more than enough evidence of God's presence in my life, to keep me safe and sane.
The days that followed this careless moment of confession were surreal. I wandered through my days in a haze of "just keep it together, Kate. Don't let anyone know you are losing your mind. You have children, you have a career, you have responsibilities. You can do this, you did it as a girl, you can do it now." But I couldn't. As a girl, I'd had God. I'd held on to the promise of spiritual purpose. Without God, I had nothing.
As the madness descended, I disappeared. I hid in my work, I escaped into a closet where darkness was a friend and the voices that hissed, "you were never loved…" were somewhat drowned out by the sound of silence. I wept for the death of hope. I mourned the loss of my one truth -- I'd been loved, it had all been for a divine purpose.
One of our neighbors was a grief counselor, and although I didn't feel comfortable pouring out my whole miserable life story to her, I found myself wandering over for tea -- often. I needed to know that someone out there cared about those of us who felt bereft and completely lost in sadness.
I listened intently as she talked about the books she was reading, the exercises she used to help her clients heal, the messages that made a difference. But nothing was finding its way through the sharp cracks in my heart, and reaching the soft flesh of my pain.
Then one day, while sitting in my dark little closet under the eaves -- and yes, it really was a closet. I felt something begin to rustle in my heart. It was like the light I was hoping would reach in through the cracks from without, was pouring out through them from within. There was a warm feeling of love, a soft light, radiating outward. It burnished the edges of each fissure and caused them to glow like fire-touched shards of ancient pottery.
All the hope I had for being healed by a system, a person, a message of comfort was obscured by the power of this inner surety -- I had been loved by God. A clear knowing that I was, in those moments of crucifixion, the very love of God being shown to my family -- regardless of what they thought, saw, or felt about me.
The fissures in my heart became the windows of my soul. I was not hiding in the dark, waiting for the light of day to stave off the madness, I was the light. I was not the shattered shell. I was the inner light -- the divine magna -- bursting forth from within.
My crisis of faith was over. I knew that nothing could ever -- again -- deprive me of who I was. I was not the object of love. I was not a child hoping, waiting, praying to be loved. I was the very love of Love. This had always been my purpose, my identity, my life -- all along.
I had not let go. I had held on long enough. I had not lost my faith in God. I had found a new sense of who I was in relation to God. My love for God and my trust in His love for me, was never going to be a guarantee that I would feel loved by others. Nor would it justify the sacrifices made. My love for God and his love for me was enough. It was, in fact, everything. It always had been, and now, it always would be.
Every time I read this statement from Mary Baker Eddy's Science and Health with Key to the Scriptures, I smile. I had long thought that if God loved me, I would find a place where there were no disappointments or woes. But I have since discovered that this is exactly where my most profound spiritual discoveries actually have their beginnings:
"Our disappointments
and ceaseless woes,
turn us like tired children
to the arms of divine Love,
then we begin to learn life
in divine Science."
My "crisis of faith" was not an interruption of my love for God, my faith in His omnipotent goodness, or my trust in his care. It was actually the beginning of a higher and deeper understanding of how invulnerable my relationship to Love, and my purpose as Love's reflection, is.
I remember, some years ago -- after having this experience -- hearing of Mother Teresa's crisis of faith. I understood. It is possible to love God supremely, to give your life to His service and the care of his children, and still be shattered by the suffering in the world - your own or that of others. But it is this breaking open of the heart, that allows compassion to pour out with with greater understanding.
And I -- for one -- am grateful for every opportunity to draw closer to Him.
offered with Love and profound gratitude,
Kate
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