Carried

I used to have a dream when I was much younger, if you want to call it that. Always dark, always rainy and cold, I would be injured in an alley somewhere after being attacked. The details would vary, but that's the gist of it. As I was lying there, scared and unable to help myself, a man would come. (Think Matt Damon in The Bourne Identity). His face doesn't stand out in memory. He never spoke to me, but he would carry me to safety. I'd like to say that he stayed at my side and then we ran away into the sunset, but my imagining usually ended at the safe place he carried me to, be it to my parents' house, a police station, or the ER.

It's been years since I've thought of this - I would say about half my life ago. As an adult I see the meaning there, for what woman doesn't wait for a man to search for and rescue her? To protect and carry her?
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Sharon has taken a breathtaking picture at a cemetery in Rome. Backlit by the sunset, an angel rests her head atop a headstone. Her protective wings drape softly down and around the memorial. Underneath the image, my friend has written, "All Heaven bows to grieve with us."
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Last Sunday's message was not about rescue, or grief, but rather being sought after. As our pastor spoke of the shepherd leaving the entire remainder of his flock to search for one lost sheep (Luke 15:4), she asked us to close our eyes and imagine what it might feel like to matter that much. To feel and believe in our heart-of-hearts that we would be relentlessly searched out, carried back to safety by Jesus. Feeling so breakable these days, I immediately felt something in me crack. I cried, and while I cried, I couldn't have been more surprised to find myself remembering those images from my adolescence, followed by the thought of my friend's photograph. I was so shocked I fought the urge to laugh. But it made perfect sense, didn't it?

Human men have never rescued me. I've never felt safe in their presence. They've let me down, running from the first hint of any need, expectation, or brokenness. As a grown woman with a few notches in her lipstick case (not a lot, just a few), I know that a man will never rescue me. As a woman growing in faith, I know a man will never redeem my life. But still I'm told that "it is not good for man to be alone," and I weep in hopelessness before God every night as I long for an eartly companion, a family of my own.

Never have I understood what they're talking about at church: Jesus is your Bridegroom, singlehood is a calling, blah blah, etc. I used to gag at the sentiment, wanting to ask, "So why does marriage even exist then? Why was I made to want it? Why is my heart broken because I don't have it?"

I won't pretend to be at total peace with those ideas, but they finally makes a little more sense. I think of my broken teenage heart, I think of my friend's photograph, and that's how I feel: the angels of Heaven, and Jesus himself, bow to grieve with my heart. This is not the end of my sadness or desire. Not even close. But there is comfort to be had amidst the sadness. As I wait, and with much relief, I am gladly learning to let Him carry me.