Hurt

Why “hurt” didn’t dig a hole, didn’t rip my soul, and hopes apart, didn’t encourage me to give up? I stepped out of the wet bathing suit and found another path, a wandering path, not some woods too deep, too lovely, and dark, but there with care as it was meant for me to cross. That was God not letting go of me even when I probably deserved to be kicked back to the wall.
 
People talk about the HURT in their lives. Someone ripped open my heart, twisted my soul and threw me down the drain. Hurt hurts. It turns the focus from goodness to pain, distracting ones smile and laughter so that it’s all a giant cry for help. Look at me. I need attention. Much is maybe a hurt that is part of growth, and faith, and love and friendship, which shows, on the one hand, the goodness of things of people, of relationship, of achievement, but also of failures, for sure, of insults, of losing a task or a game, of falling into the wrong if not the worst situation pecking at your hard heart; or blowing up a too ambiguous or extreme soul which just isn’t picking the right road or the best pizza to stop the growl in one’s stomach.
 
Although it was a constant stumbling stretch that even got me down to the bottom of my soul, I wonder why did I never give up? As marriages tumbled, and life went from one extreme to the other, all the while I was in a positive mood, glad to be free, anxious to get back to adventures that tossed around in my mind. But I never wept, not because nor though life was over, but rather life tossed up for me a new hope, a new dimension, a new adventure, a new pathway, sort of a new puff of powder like that LeBron James tosses into the air before each basketball game, or a fist bump from Ja Morant as he skips out to join his team for the jump beginning. Everyone has some sort of “good luck” routine.
 
No, I never even thought about suicide, or of giving up or shooting myself. There was always so much to be done, so much to see, so much to learn, so many who just flat need help.  There were so many opportunities to do something over again, something better, something positive that could give love and courage and knowledge to someone in a terrible situation, someone strangling to death, someone hopeless and ready to kick the bucket. Somehow, I never got that dismal low. And I would give a hug to the worst possibilities and start them over with a new design, a new song to shout out of my soul, a new twist or challenge that I couldn’t let go.

Did I think I wasn’t good enough, or I deserved what was surrounding, hurting, hating me for being me, or did  I keep on keeping on because the road was not so bumpy or narrow but always had all kinds of “salidas” and I would take on another problem or trade or romance or meal or just have faith that I could try again with a better result. And that I have done with my Roberto who puts up with me and loves me.
 
I have no reprieve for war. How can some monster shut himself up in a palace and order death to be followed out among all his enemies and, to be honest, real innocent people who just want to enjoy family, keep a good job, and go to a stadium on the weekend to shout and sing goodness on their favorite team. How can a stadium of 150,000 in North Korea to the Michigan football stadium holding 107,000 to  Wei Wei’s Bird’s nest stadium which holds 80,000 people - but one way or the other packed in like sardines, people are willing to suffer pain for a couple hours of competition, and then walk on off to a beer or a curse or attack an enemy who carried off the glory of victory. It hurts one’s ego. It hurts after all the yelling and screaming and wearing the colors, and cheering with all the hope one can muster, and then it all sinks into a pillow of despair, and still the noise, the dancing girls with fast shaking hair, or the snow and ice just crashed down any hope of something good happening, all the beat goes on and sports take place over anything God’s people might be drawn to in a stadium.
 
We are not all in control of such things. The weather dominates anything outdoors. Noise, well, it can make a good effect or be a waste-less scream as if anything one yells or says has anything to do with the loss or victory that happens in any sports. It’s just fun being there, supposedly, win or lose. But it hurts when the T-shirt, the colors, the noise makers were a complete flop. And the date someone had trusted to enjoy for those hours, ends up being a disaster of humanity, and so one shuts that door and goes home to have a half pint of ice cream, alone.
 
Death is like a giant fingered hand posing over life, at any moment tapping down on someone’s delight or victory or loss. One’s ego is hurt. How could my team lose? How could your team win? Who cares about the other part of the world? Who will fight the structure to get the hurt out of what is happening to children in Africa or India or even the deep south of America because mankind has failed to care for these kids who skim along the edges of this earth, and the weeping and bleeding of children born into the most vulgar and violent situations? Those in the “hot” lands are dying. The starving babies have diseases and pain beyond anything we, who have everything for survival, can cure and survive. But the pain, the neglect, the fears, the deaths hurt beyond the pain we can bear.
 
The easy way out for many of us is to turn our backs because we are afraid of being Hurt ourselves, and we haven’t the courage to fight whatever might be poured down upon us, because it is everywhere, or because we have failed to be who or what we should have been. It Hurts and so we bury or camouflage what we don’t have to know. We might whip through a prayer - I pray for the suffering children - but what do we do? How do we get involved? How do we hear the Hurt that is swirling in our hearts and souls trying to stir us up to become someone willing to give and love and feed and hug those who suffer so much Hurt that there is no comparison nor hope that that Hurt will ever be resolved. So, when God turns His back on us, I hope we feel the pain because it is unbearable. And only buckets of love and a touch of a hand, a smile of hope, can keep our faith alive even with Hurt walking along side of us. 

~ Rev

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audrey@audreytaylorgonzalez.com
www.audreytaylorgonzalez.com