Come listen to this guy.

We’d been to church, and Mark had been to a Bible study, and really liked the author/facilitator. He came home and looked him up on the Internet. Now he wanted me to listen.

I tried. I stood there, listening without comprehending. I wanted to stick my fingers in my ears like I did one time when I was a kid and I didn’t like the loud music at church.

I told him I just couldn’t. I couldn’t listen. He gently protested, But what he’s saying is right.

I know. (Really, I didn’t. I hadn’t been comprehending.) But it’s not even what he’s saying. It’s how he’s saying it. It’s that tone…that preacher tone…the one that demands attention, claims to have all the answers, and dares anyone to ask questions. I just can’t listen.

It’s okay, he said.

He can’t understand what I’m going through…the distaste, the frustration; but he’s patient. He sympathizes with my tears and encourages the healing process…whatever it takes.

Sometimes I wonder if he wishes I were a little less complex. If he does, he never says.

I struggle; he’s patient. I’m emotional; he’s patient. I fall apart, wondering if I’ll ever fully be healed; he’s patient.

I’ve often kidded him about growing up in a Cleaver-type home. These days, I see it as a blessing because if we were both sorting through painful childhood memories and a repulsion for all things Christianese, I’m not sure our household would function. He’s the steady rock right now, while I’m the ship battered at sea.

He walks this messy grace journey with me, leading me when I can’t put one foot in front of the other, and reminds me, It’s okay.