Unbidden the tears flow. Forever my heart possesses a gaping wound. Forever this heart is broken, a “victim of love” as Mother Teresa wrote often in her private letters. Such a strange phrase isn’t it? Victim of love.
In my early 20’s, frankly too young to know better, I asked God that whatever breaks His heart would break mine as well. I desired His eyes and His heart. It’s taken the better part of the last two decades to realize what the answer to that prayer looks like. If I knew then what I know now would I utter the same request? Would I have a choice?
O Lord, open my lips, and my mouth will declare your praise. You do not delight in sacrifice, or I would bring it; you do not take pleasure in burnt offerings. The sacrifices of God are a broken spirit; a broken and contrite heart, O God, you will not despise. ~Psalm 51, a prayer of King David
Broken. Isn’t there an easier way? Victims of His love, His unchanging yet new every morning ocean of love, know the answer is no. And I know I need to embrace it and sometimes I do. But more often than not, I run from the Love and from the brokenness that’s an answer to the naive yet pure hearted prayers of that long gone twenty something.
Pulled by the undertow of His love, swirling and spinning and tumbling and wondering when I’ll break the surface for air or if I’ll drown, He won’t let me go, fight as I might.
Why do I, why do we, run from that perfect, terrifying Love that saves? Gasping for the breath of self we cling to the last shreds of ourselves -our rights.
Thankfully our struggle proves vain because He will not and cannot let go or remove His Love.