The boulder

Sometimes my ego is a giant, unwieldy boulder chasing me down a long dark tunnel like Indiana Jones. No matter how fast I run, it follows me right on my heels, rolling over and crushing any little piece of goodwill and bit of attempted purity that happens to fall out of my pockets as I go. Sometimes I try to squash that boulder down out of sight, pushing it with a lot of elbow grease and self hate under layers of false modesty and insecurity to hide it – but all I end up doing is sitting on top of it, high up above the soil of my heart and exposed for all the world to see.

It’s an ongoing battle, between me and it. Where I try to beat it out of my heart – flailing a feeble stick on what is suddenly not a boulder but the flanks of a ten ton cow that won’t stop chewing on the cud of my pride and self righteousness. Where it then licks me with its big, slimy, pride coated tongue just when I’m convinced it’s gone – to remind me it hasn’t moved from its spot at all. It’s like the boggart in my closet – taking the form of that massive cow, that heavy boulder. Hard to look at – impossible to banish when it feeds on my fears.

I don’t know how Jesus puts up with the constant fighting to be honest. How he doesn’t get tired of having to remind me what’s what. Or rather who’s who. He keeps having to take the hammer of self hate out of my hands, the one I think looks like righteousness, holiness, being good, getting perfect. I keep trying to swing it at my ego and hitting my soul – my spirit – instead. Leaving giant holes and chunks in what Jesus is making – the beautiful artwork that he’s been painstakingly designing for some 40 odd years.

Every time his big, scarred hand folds around mine to stop me from swinging that hammer, he gives me this look.

This patient,

exasperated,

but I love you look.

The one that says he’ll keep standing there taking that hammer away from me until the end of time.

Because he’s protective of his artwork that way. Because he’s fiercely territorial about my heart.

Maybe this whole tale feels strange to you. Maybe you’re like my husband and have never really had to fear your ego. Or even thought about it much. But I grew up hearing phrases like “pride goeth before a fall”, and “the Lord opposes the proud” and it made a deep impression on my young, sensitive heart. I became obsessive about not being proud, and my fear of it turned into something dangerous, something self abusive. It made me hyper aware of my ego and my potential messed up motives behind any decision I might make. So much so that every time I shared something I had done with anyone (be it art or writing or just thoughts that felt important) I would fall into spirals of despair and a cycle of self abuse to try and stop myself from that sin of pride. To keep myself from being that person that God opposes. Worse, because of this fear of pride, I had a twisted idea about the word humble. Basically that it meant dirt. Be dirt.

It’s been a long road of healing – Jesus showed me that hammer and what I was doing with it many years ago now – and I still battle with the urge to pick it up. I still find myself gouging holes out of my self esteem now. Even more, I was always eager to prove myself – I wanted to fix and fashion my being by myself, prove I could be good enough, that I could be perfect for him… eventually. For so very long, I didn’t trust Jesus to teach me – to help me. I saw him as the one who would take a hammer to me and beat me into something I didn’t recognize through trials of pain and fire and brimstone. That teaching about him made him scary and abusive – when in reality he is so much more gentle than I, so much more patient, so much more careful with me.

We sat at the foot of his cross yesterday, cross legged and quiet in the dirt. No one was around on that hill to see us. I had just shared my writing with someone I respect. Someone whose opinion I truly value. And as usual it sent me into my spiral. So we sat together, shoulders brushing, knees touching, and it was easy between us despite the turmoil I was in. I threw little pebbles just for something to do with my hands as I told him my fears about my ego, my possible pride, and the arrogance that might be hiding behind my back where I couldn’t see it. I told him how angry I was with myself that I get this way – over think everything I do, can’t just be simply humble and enjoy my life with him without bringing these big emotions into it, doing all this second guessing.

He looked over at me, with that teasing light in his eyes, and reminded me of the verse he had given me that morning in 1 Peter 5:6 “Humble yourselves, therefore, under God’s mighty hand, that he may lift you up in due time.”

Normally this verse would send me into another tailspin of anxiety. About how to humble myself. But not when I’m sitting next to my favourite person. The one who loves me so fiercely he’ll stand between me and my self hate hammer.

“Let me teach you. Let me be the one to keep you humble.” He said, and then he nudged my shoulder with his and grinned at me, “after all I’m the one with a mighty hand.” He winked. His eyes twinkled in amusement. We both know he’s the most gentle soul I’ve ever met. His mightiness doesn’t usually mean smash and grab and force. It comes out in unexpected, vulnerable ways you’d never think of – ways you’d never realize could mean strength until you experience it. But then he sobered, his eyes searching mine, his voice soft. “I am your help, Ker.”

I could go on, explain more, but gosh, don’t you love him? Do you see him? Do you feel that wordless gushing up of refreshing water that he is? The kind you find in the driest desert? Gah! I can hardly stand the joy of being with him. It’s such a simple truth, that he wants to help. Wrestling with my ego and all the imposter thoughts that come into my head, fighting back the messages and the fear of them is so very exhausting, so unending, so defeating when I try to do it by myself – when I think I have to conquer it before I can go to him, before I can be me.

The very instant he looks at me with that teasing twinkle in his eye, the very instant he tells me “I am your help, Ker” – in that tone of his –

in that most favourite voice of mine –

the one that only sounds deep inside my heart –

that is the very instant that peace crashes into me. Like a giant ocean wave of home and safety and oh my goodness, life and freedom. That is the instant my ego stops its roll. Halted in its tracks and banished by that mighty hand that’s so quick to protect my soul. And then I’m just me and he’s just him and we sit there together in the quiet world of freedom, breathing it all in.