Tuesday, March 10, 2009

Dearest God,

I remember offering a retreat on a bitter heart. I remember some of the symptoms of a bitter heart. I remember the sweet smell of grace when women, including me, released, let go, surrendered the bitterness our hearts had held for many years.

That's why it's hard to accept that bitterness found its way back home. The incident was a shock to me. If someone had predicted the event, I would have laughed. I would have said, "No Way!" And yet, the situation occurred. I had to deal with many of its dimensions. And that's when I allowed bitterness to set up shop in my heart once again.

There's something so unnatural about bitterness. It gets in your bloodstream. Like a virus, it can take over your thoughts at times. It can bring anger, resentment, and a sense of hopelessness. It can eat away the good things about you. And it can make plans for a take over. It can make you evil, demanding, ugly. And it can bring tears. Tears about the situation, the brokenness of the relationship, the way you feel used, and the acceptance of what bitterness has done to your life. When tears come, there is so much to cry about, you feel you will never stop crying. That's been me. Through and through.

That's why I was surprised last week when you brought the name of the person to me. You said her name, not once but twice. "What?" I asked. Like maybe I hadn't heard it right. Your gentle persuasive power spoke to my bitter heart. It's time. It's Lent; it's time.

I have felt the gentle massaging of my heart. Like life coming back to parts that went silent several months ago. It's strange, very strange. Yet, it's so like you to do it this way. What was dead is now alive again, at least that part of it.

I have
to act now.
I shared
with a friend,
two friends
about the incident,
committing myself,
making myself accountable
to do something:
a conversation,
a call,
a card,
something.
You are ready
to take
a swipe
at my bitterness,
that layer
of resentment
that has formed
around my heart.
And I am thankful.
Help me, I pray.

Love, Andrea