I Can Hear You Smile

Last night, like many other nights, I got into bed and looked over at my husband in the low-light of our bedside lamps. His eyes were closed, and I just looked at his face for a few moments. I give him a hard time if he turns the light off before I get a chance to “stare at his face.” At my cue, he turns the light back on and tries to lie there all nonchalant-like while I “get my fill,” and then usually laughter erupts at the “goofiness” of this ritual. It is one of my favorite parts of the day.  It is my little moment of “thankful” for this sweet relationship that God has gifted to me before the lights go off, and I drift off to sleep (yes, I do realize what a ridiculous old sap this makes me out to be). Last night was no different. After a minute or two, he opened his eyes, and I asked him why he opened them. He said: “Because you laughed.” I answered, “No, I laughed after your eyes were already opened.” His response: “Well, I could hear you smile.” 

This last year has been one of processing some deeply buried, difficult things. At the beginning of the year, I chose the word “enough” as a theme concept that I wanted to grapple with and grasp. I have struggled for as long as I can remember with feeling like I need to be more or do more, that I am never quite “enough.” I have struggled under self-imposed expectations, expectations of others, and perceived expectations of God. Exhausting. 

When I was hit with intense physical pain and loss six years ago (as complete adrenal malfunction took over my body after my fifth abdominal surgery, perhaps triggered by Lyme disease, medication, and some parasitic infections), I had no idea how to process what had happened to me and the loss that I had experienced. We had spent several years going back and forth between doctors, trying to figure out how to help my body heal. I could not, for several years, even meet  the most basic of expectations as a wife and mother because of debilitating pain and fatigue. It had all happened so suddenly. Like people often do when shocked with life-altering trauma, I lived in denial for a time, trying desperately to just  “get back” what I had lost in almost frantic ways. I had lost time, some relationships, functionality, future hopes and dreams all at once. It was just too much. I struggled to get out of survival mode, desperately trying to regain my health so that I could show up for the people who matter to me. Feelings of desperation can only take a person so far. There is a fine line between ambition (fighting spirit) and acceptance, and I have teeter-tottered all over that line.

So here I am.  God has brought me to this very uncomfortable year. I have felt squirmy through much of it. I knew the time had come for some deep processing. I couldn’t put it off any longer. Some of the loss seems here to stay for the foreseeable future, and I have needed to let myself feel the hurt and disappointment. There have been more layers to the onion than I had initially imagined, and the process has been longer and more grueling than I anticipated.  I am a classic “stuffer of emotions” by nature. Opening the door to let the emotions out felt very scary to me. I would no sooner open a door than I would want to slam it shut because the intensity of the emotions frightened me. It didn’t take long to realize that I would not be able to do this alone. I have been slowly learning to bring these hurts, fears, and disappointments to God, begging Him to do the healing of the deepest wounds in my heart, which are now laying naked and exposed before Him. The layers of the onion are pulled back, and the tears burn my tired eyes. 

Last night, not more than two minutes after the aforementioned “ritual,”  we heard little footsteps approaching our bedroom. I immediately felt warmth in my heart as I anticipated what my sweet Emily girl needed from me this time (and yes, I knew immediately that it was my Emily girl). This time, she needs a kiss on her eye because it is hurting. I gladly oblige and give her a few big squeezes just because, well, I can, and because she is my girl who can never get enough hugs. Satisfied, she marches back up to bed.

I feel the tears begin to roll down my cheeks. I begin to think about my Father who knows me intimately. Surely He “hears my smiles”  and delights in my joys. Surely His heart wells up with warmth when He “hears me coming” with my cares. He is prepared with comfort, even delighted to extend it. Surely He knows the deep ache in my soul before I can find words to describe it, and He is ready with a balm that only He can provide. Surely He knows the nervous quiver in the pit of my stomach as I branch out into uncharted waters. Surely He delights in my baby steps of growth. Surely He gives grace for my blunders. Surely He WANTS me to come to Him and place my burdens into His arms, and then “march” back into my day with peace and confidence.

I am already “enough.”

“For God has said, ‘I will never fail you. I will never abandon you.’ So we can say with confidence, ‘The Lord is my helper. So I will have no fear. What can mere people do to me?’”

Hebrews 13:5-6