Doing Time

Time . . . sitting on the plane to New York, time is present, in my face. Literally; there is a screen hanging in front of me with a map showing where we are en route, along with a clock displaying how long we've been flying and how much time remains. One one hand, kinda cool. On the other hand, do we really need to know? We'll get there when we get there . . . it's not like there's much we can do about it, anyway.

My mind keeps returning to Nichole, sitting in her cell, 3+ years to go. Her situation reflects to me my own impatience, my need for clarity, my need to have everything resolved and figured out and neatly tied up with a bow. She has some idea of when the transition will come, but until then, she's got to wait it out, the looming awareness that her options are limited for quite a ways down the road as the clock slowly ticks. Meanwhile, I don't know when and how things will unfold at all, but I see how hard it is to wait. At least I have the freedom and the options, but I get so wrapped up in it all, so wrapped up in myself and my problems . . . she reminds me to remain humble, and tread lightly . . . 

Nichole wonders how people can love her after all that she's done. After all the mistakes, the breaches of trust, the stress and other challenges that affected those close to her. I wonder the same about myself. In my family, mistakes were not allowed, nothing less than perfection. One mistake, even something as simple as slamming a car door too hard, laughing too loudly, or getting a B in school, and love was withheld, punishment dished out, no second chances. I see in my relationships how afraid I am to make mistakes, how after saying or doing something at all insensitive or hurtful (which happens way more than I'd like, especially the closer I get to someone), I expect them to leave and walk away, holding resentment and not wanting to engage any more. Love withheld. It doesn't leave me much breathing room, much room to be human, and it's like being in a permanent prison with little room to move. 

Slowly, like Nichole, I am seeing how things are different now. I have people in my life who are committed to being with me, close to me, caring for me, loving me, giving me chances to make mistakes, learn from them, and grow. It is quite humbling, and I am grateful for the love and support. I am so forgiving of others, yet I am still surprised when they are forgiving of me. Nichole and I are both learning that being loved isn't about being perfect, or needing to do anything for anyone. It simply is being who we are. In its essence, love is freely offered, freely received, without conditions.

The rapids inside me are calming down. The shame and guilt that I've carried are becoming things that I merely observe and notice, rather than things that I cling to or give much energy. I am human. I am flawed. It is natural. I am still lovable. I feel God more now, trusting the presence, trusting myself, as me, in me. Me as.

And still, I love. Openly. Freely. My heart wide, still beating, even as time continues to pass, even as the aches still surface. I can care for myself, but I can't control the outcome. I'll get there when I get there.

In time. 

Trust in that.