Opaque No Longer

                Opaque is a word that I never really knew the meaning of until recently when I looked it up.  It means, according to Merriam and Webster Online 2015, "not letting light through:: not transparent."  After looking that up, I had to look up the difference between "transparent" and "translucent" to figure out exactly what they meant.

                Transparent: "able to be seen through."

                Translucent: "not completely clear or transparent but clear enough to allow light to pass through."

                A common catch phrase that is generally used in deep conversations between confidants is "I want to be transparent with you."  I know I've said it before, and I've heard many people say it or something similar to convey the same message. 

                But the truth is, I have never once meant it.  At most, I have meant "I want to be translucent with you," but never have I really wanted to be transparent, see-through, completely and utterly open for viewing.  I have never wanted to give the world a window into my heart because I alone knew how ugly it was for so long and how dark it had become.  To let someone see me for who I am?  To be transparent?  It's a terrifying concept, really.

                Yet here I am, unready to be transparent and unwilling to stay opaque - so perhaps I must settle for this thing called translucency, this partially unveiled in-between that is neither one nor the other.  All I know is that I must let some light in.

                When I was 12 years old, I accidentally found myself on a website with explicit videos and pictures depicting actions that I could never have dreamt existed.  I recovered from the immediate shock and temporal paralysis within a few seconds and moved the mouse to hit the "back" arrow on the screen.  When it didn't go back to the search page, I found myself slamming the button on the poor little mouse and fast as I could - with no results.  When it finally occurred to me to close the tab altogether, I was relieved of the scenes that had played out in front of my unwilling eyes.  Irrationally scared of getting in trouble for an unintentional mistake, I didn't tell my parents.

                A few months later, mid-way through my school year, I looked up something to do with human anatomy and clicked on "images".  The pictures that appeared shattered yet another piece of innocence in my mind, and I remember feeling baffled and not understanding.  Once again, I clicked away as quickly as I could, thinking it would soon be gone from my mind, like the first time.

                Except it wasn't.  What were those images?  What else was out there?  How could I have accidentally seen those things, not once, but twice?  Without purposefully looking for anything less than pure, I had found images that were revolting, and yet, they held fast to my curiosity.  What, I wondered, could I find if I was actually searching?

                Intrigue overcame me and another few months later, close to my 13th birthday, I found myself alone with a computer once again.  Entering a few key words provoked the internet to bring up images, videos, stories that changed my entire life.  My disgust never left, but the stories I read held my interest long enough to take me captive - because that's exactly how addiction works.

                For those of you who are reading this and have been blessed enough to have never experienced addiction (yet), let me stop and explain something to you.  Addiction is powerful and it can control your life.  It can chain your mind in ways that you could not conceive of.  It can break you in like a dog with a muzzle, or a once-new shoe that you choose to wear every day for 8 hours straight, or a cave blown to smithereens by a stick of dynamite, or a ship that succumbs to the roaring waves of the ocean.   It takes your strength and your willpower and crushes it like the Hulk Smash against opposition.  It's very real and a huge issue when it latches onto you.

                Did I want to be chained?  Absolutely not.  When my curiosity had been more than satiated, I tried to give it up.  My every intention was to cease to read the stories that I had been reading, and to cut out the images that I had been viewing.  Neither of those things happened, and there aren't human words to express the horror, remorse, and weakness that I felt.

                And could I tell anyone?  At 13, in the 8th grade, living what, on the outside, seemed to be the perfect life of a good Christian girl, could I tell - anyone? 

                This was an issue that boys struggle with.  Pornography wasn't a worry for girls.  I'd heard whispers about it in relation to young men, but on the occasion that I caught a smidgen of a conversation about it, never had young girls been mentioned.  For a boy to deal with this problem seemed possible, perhaps even likely - but for me, a girl?  How could I confess the truth about something that nobody had considered - period?  I felt unable to.

                So I didn't.  My secret caused me to quake with fear at the idea of telling someone.  For another person to know what it was that I spend so much energy trying to hide was too much to handle.  So I started to build walls - not just to keep others out, but to try to contain what I held onto so closely inside of those walls.  If I could just contain the problem, maybe I could control it, too.  Right?

                But I couldn't.  Solutions evaded me and nothing that I tried lasted.  A few months would go by and I would begin to think that I was free, only to feel the noose around my neck pulled tight again, reminding me of my chains and my inability to overcome them. 

                The summer I was 14, I wrote a letter to my Mom, telling her about my addiction.  I told her about my struggle and that I felt helpless and horrible and that I was sorry.  My hands shook as I gave it to her, but my entire body shook as I locked myself in the bathroom while she read it, trying not to weep openly.  I left out a key part of my struggle in my letter, though - I made it seem as if I had conquered my sin and it no longer had a grip on my life, when in reality, the battle had yet to be won.

                So my Mom did what every loving Mother would do - she told me how much she loved me and that I was forgiven and a new creation in Christ; that the One Who formed my inmost being adored me no matter what, and had already covered me in Grace.  She checked up on me a few times in the months that followed, but that wasn't enough to break my habit that was becoming a lifestyle. 

                So I fell back into it, just as my Mom stopped asking about it.  The temptation was there and it drew me in stronger than ever before, as if to show me that my pitiful attempt to get help and become free had only served to deepen the hole in my life that I could not seem to fill.  I begged sanctuary, but the innate failure was that I could not escape myself.  I couldn't reach out and pull myself out of the hole, because I was the one in it.  I could not help myself.

                Since I could not escape, I found myself becoming resigned to the fate of slavery to addiction.  It was misery if ever there was misery.  I lived a squeaky clean, shining life on the outside, but in my heart I felt collapsed and fake. 

                I went through times where I thought I had attained freedom, and I went through times when I thought I could never, would never be free.  Some days, every smile that I gave away was fake and simply a guise for my depression and inability to escape myself.  The pain was a great burden that I hide extremely well considering its size.

                But it was impossible to hide forever, and a part of me always knew that.  As desperate as I was to contain the poison inside of myself, my efforts only served to increase the toxicity.  The putrid environment I had fostered in my heart was bound to spill over.  No matter how tall I structured the walls around my heart, I could never build them fast enough to compensate for my addiction. 

                This summer, those walls couldn't withstand the pressure anymore, so they broke.  I told my parents, my sister, and some of my close friends. 

                Telling other people was one of the best decisions I have ever made, period.  After telling my Mom (the whole story, this time), and seeing that I was still secure in her affections, I had the boldness to tell my Dad.  A few close friends came next, and they reaffirmed me as well.  Telling my sister was hard because it means having to admit to not being the example I should have been for her, but it was relieving as well, because her strength helped to sustain me as the battle inside of me raged on.

                And so the walls were broken, but that left me to pick out and sort through what rubble remained.  My emotions regarding my sin varied a lot initially, from outrage at the porn industry of exploiting humans sexually for profit to wondering how anybody could still love me to fighting the temptation to get on my computer and fall back into sin. 

                As time went on and I talked to more and more people about it, I was shocked to discover how many girls said they had either fought or were fighting the against the same temptations.  None of them were given all the help they needed and a couple had never even told anybody until after hearing about my journey.  Pornography has been categorized as an issue that men and boys deal with, and that doesn't personally effect women, but let me tell you something: pornography isn't just those Playboy magazines anymore.  It's not something you have to mail-order or something that only comes on glossy paper sheathed in plastic wrap.  It's everywhere.

                It's on the billboards we pass while driving on the freeway.  It's in the grocery stores as you wait in the checkout line.  It's advertised as you scroll through your email.  It pops up in all of your spam mail.  It's all over television and the radio.  Unless you go and live in a deserted cave or a place void of all technology, it's inescapable. 

                It's an epidemic that is being ignored by everybody.  The adult generation would like to believe that they can fend off all of these sources of pornography for their children when they can't, and the young adults and people struggling with this are filled with shame for a sin that they can only begin to break away from when the light shines into their darkness and they choose to tell someone.  You can dig yourself into a hole, but how can you dig yourself out of it? 

                James 5:16 says, "Confess your sins to each other and pray for each other so that you may be healed.  The prayer of a righteous person is powerful and effective." 

                Only flaw there?  I'm not righteous. Nobody is, really.  It is not by my righteousness that I am healed.  It is not by my righteousness that I am saved.  It is not by my righteousness that I am forgiven.  It is not by my righteousness that I pray.  It's by the righteousness of Jesus alone that I have mercy, grace, and love poured out into my heart and life.  He is my One True Hope.

                Being opaque only lasted me for so long, and it only served to prolong and enflame the damage that bring addicted to pornography did to me. 

                So, why am I posting this?  Why am I choosing to be so very open and transparent with nobody in particular, but everybody in general? 

                This is for the people, girls in particular, who have struggled like I have.  This is for those who need that second chance but don't even know where to begin.  This is for the newness that I am learning to experience and that I want for you, too.  This is for the chance to give you hope and endurance for the journey ahead of you that I understand so well.  But most of all, this is to let you know that you are not alone. 

                I am willing to listen to your struggles.  I want to be able to help you and talk to you if you need somebody who will understand.  You can tell me as much or as little as you'd like, and I will pray for you either way.  I've created an email address specifically for you to be able to reach out to me, and if you need to, I hope you do reach out. 

                You are loved, and you are not beyond help.

                Thank you for letting me be transparent with you.

 

Email me at opaque.no.longer@gmail.com

The Other Side of the Glass

  I work at a Chick-Fil-A that happens to have a Play Land for all of the adorable, obnoxious, ornery, cherub-like, smiling, crying kids that come with their parents to eat our wonderful food.  We clean the Play Land twice a day, everyday, and as needed throughout - once in the afternoon, after lunch is nearly over with, and once at night before we close.  Cleaning the Play Land isn't ever a "fun" job, what with climbing through the tunnels with cleaner and a towel and awkwardly trying to clean the slide - without sliding - and all of that.  But the part of Play Land that is the very hardest to keep clean is the glass.
  The glass separates the Play Land from the rest of the restaurant, providing something of a sound barrier for our guests against the over-enthusiastic kids who have just a little too much energy.  Because of the nature of glass being see through, parents can easily step outside of the Play Land and still have a clear view of their children.  Parents and guests love it.
  But the kids love it, too.  They love to press their hands and faces up against it, waving and tapping at it for their parents' full attention.  Hand prints and nose prints mar the clear surface with smudges and enough DNA to easily solve any mystery about whose handprint was whose, or which child had committed the crime of blemishing the clean glass.  The adorable pudgy faces that so eagerly imprint themselves are generally easy to clean up after, but present some complications, as well.
  For one, it always seems that right after all of the blots have been removed, there suddenly appear - more of them.  Another thing - you can rarely ever accurately tell which side of the glass the the smears are really on.  It's a lot easier to clean the ones on the outside, because you don't have to open the door to get inside the Play Land and wipe up the inevitable soapy spills on the blue padded benches.  Blemished on the inside can only be cleaned when there aren't any kids in the Play Land.  But telling which side needs to be cleaned?  That's the hardest part.
  Which brings me to the point of this post.
  Our lives is like the glass that surrounds that Play Land.  More than we know, people can see our weaknesses and out blemishes and our failures - and they're not pretty.  The smooth surface that we try to present is marred by attitudes, sins, lack of success, lack of satisfaction, discontent, and so many other things. Maybe it all seems pretty equal to you, but matters what side of the glass they're on.
  Outer defacements can be easily fixed - they're on a surface level, on the outside, and haven't sunken into a deep place in out lives.  They can be fixed without serious maintenance or disturbance of others who take part in our lives.  There is no need to kick out any metaphorical "children" running around in the analogical "Play Land" of our lives when the imperfections are on the outside.  But should even a speck be on the inside of the glass, a full overhaul of the "Play Land" is needed to get it clean.  When sin sinks in and isn't just skin-deep anymore, but has become a part of who we are - then the cleansing process gets a lot harder.  The exterior of our lives, the very surface, can be spotless - but on the other side of the glass there could be a devastating amount of filth, and the cleanliness of the outside wouldn't really matter very much anymore, would it?
  Cleaning yourself out is quite a task.  It's unpleasant and requires work that nobody is fond of.  It can demand hard things from you, like adjusting aspects of your life that you'd rather leave in comfortable disarray because it causes no change to those around you and easier for you.  But it's worth it.  The satisfaction of living your life well can be described only by those who have, and the reviews they give it are to rave about.  They have fewer regrets.  They have stronger memories of happiness and less mistrust of getting older.  They have a self-assurance that is beyond what seems human.  They love living simply for the joys that each day can bring - from the ache in their knees when they hold a grandchild on their lap to the garden they choose to plant this year, the same as last year and the sunshine that hasn't failed the earth yet.
  But in cleaning yourself out, you find it's a task you can't do on your own.  Only a Hero, One Who has knowledge of failure and yet has the ultimate solution for fixing and preventing it, can really be of help.  He's the One I turn to in for my needs - and though I still fail to clean off the smudges permanently in some cases, He is faithful to come join me in washing the windows of my life clean each time I mess up, and for that I could never thank Him enough.
  (And these are the thoughts I have while cleaning Play Land.  Good heavens.)

I Don't Understand Love

  I don't understand love.  The more I look inward, the more I see outward, the less I understand it.  I've grown up with the words "I love you" infused into everything - I hear it, speak it, see it.  But what about living it?
  What do "those three words" mean anymore?  "I love you" has become, largely, a catch phrase.  I say it to my family, my friends, my coworkers, those who take part in my life - and yet, how often to I pause to think about it as I speak it?
  My friends love me.  They talk to me, spend time with me, buy me gifts for my birthday, and repeat the age-old and over-used string of words that has been constructed in a way that can never be re-arranged.  "You are the one I love."  "Love describes how I feel about you."  "I feel love towards you."  "You are loved by me."  When was the last time you heard any of those?  "I love you" seems to be the only way in which we know how to "say it."
  My Mom loves me in a maternal manner.  This love is one I truly cannot understand, as I am not a mother.  She washes my laundry, makes me food, listens to me, scolds me, gives me advice, encourages me - and in these ways, she shows me every moment that her care for me is at the core of who she is.  Even when we argue, she still feels me meals, and even when I talk back to her, she still checks on me at night to make sure everything is OK before I go to sleep.  She says she loves me, and because of her actions, I believe her, but I still don't understand it.  I have never been a mother.
  My coworkers (some of them) love me.  I work hard and smile a lot and am always ready to listen, and they return those favors to me.  But these things are nothing beyond what is acceptable and normal in a given work scenario.  They love me where I'm at, for who I am at work - but they could still choose not to.  The mindset of humanity is to love, and here I am, caught in a place of loving and being loved when I can't say I even understand it.
  I've never been "in love" romantically, so again, I can't possibly attempt to understand something I have never even experienced.  In a world where romantic love has extended itself to "whenever, whatever, whomever" it becomes even more confusing and strange than it already was before.  Sorting through all of this seems impossible - unless I were to have experienced romantic love over a series of years, people, places and whatnot, I can't possible understand all of the facets of romantic love.

  But there is one love that I know I will never understand.  Unconditional love.

  God's love.  I know He loves me - I feel it, breathe it, need it, function by it, thrive off of it, hear it, see in, have a need for it, desire it with all that I am, rely upon it.  His love is to me as gasoline is to a gas-powered car - I don't properly function without it.
  While I know that I could never really live without His love, I also know that I don't deserve it in any manner.  I'm not a good person, or even really an O-K person.  I'm selfish and mean and I have ugly parts to my life that I'd rather nobody ever saw.  The light of day hasn't seen my worst times because I haven't let it.  There are some moments I regret and would give anything to take back and try again.  I've hurt people because of being careless with how human they are - because we're all human, right?  I've said things out of a bad mood that never should have been thought of - ever.  I've taken control of situations that weren't mine to be in charge of and I've messed up badly.  I've read things I shouldn't have and done things that I myself condemn.  I'm a hypocrite and I lie to myself sometimes to make me feel better.  How horrible is all of that?  I'm not a good person - I'm far from.  I'm human and I fail a lot.  It's part of the human experience, but that doesn't mean it hurts any less.  I know all of my worst evils and parts in a way no other human does - this leads me to think I'm probably one of the worst people out there.  Romans 3:10 tells me that nobody is righteous; not even one - but still, I have heard my dimmest thoughts loud and clear, and worse than that, have acted upon them at some of the most unfavorable times.  I give way to emotions that have no place in my heart, and I let off negative attitudes that are my problem, not everyone else's.  I'm not a good person.
  My righteousness isn't mine - in fact, I have none.  I'm not righteous or good or holy.  The only way I have any of that is because of His unconditional love.
  My kindness isn't mine.  I have a very limited ability to be kind in and of myself - kindness is generally an intrinsic human instinct.  Be kind to the weak among you, and to those who love you.  Be kind to those around you as much as you can.  But that can really only go so far.  It's really hard to be kind to the people who really don't deserve it, and the only way I ever successfully do that is by His kindness and not my own.
  My attitude isn't mine.  I smile a lot and like to show affection, compassion, helpfulness, gentleness, and loyalty to people, but I wouldn't be nearly as able to do any of that without relying fully on His grace and strength.
  Sometimes, I still fail in all of these things because I'm still human.  I'm still stuck in the same mess as everybody else.  But I've been redeemed, and not by my own character, but by His, because "while I was still a (horrible, miserable, detestable, mean, heartless) sinner, He died for me."  (Romans 5:8)

  All of this to say - you don't have to understand something to live it.  You don't have to use your own strength to fight for the person you want to be.  You don't have to understand love.  You just have to give it.  No matter - if you agree with someone or not, if someone wrongs you or not, if someone is cruel to you or not, if someone judges you or not, if someone is mean to you or not - the best you can do is to love them.  If someone is kind, patient, understand, thinks the same you do, encourages you, ect, how easy will it be for you to love them and show affection to them?  Everybody does that.  But how easy is it to love someone who shows you only hatred and injustice?  Yet, that is really what love is at its core.  Unconditional love is what we are called to by Jesus.  (Matthew 5:43-48)

  Show love.  Give as it has been given.  Your understanding of it, my understanding of it, is irrelevant to His calling.  Speak life and listen.  Be gentle and kind.  Show compassion and affection.  Love as brothers.  (1 Peter 3:8)

  Give of yourself.  In the end, there's not much more you can do but to live as Christ has called you.Strive for that everyday, and know that He loves you in a way that you will never understand.