When the Glue Won’t Hold

A Letter for the Ones Who Fall Apart

My Dear Lovelians,

Life is the messy bitz. My mom coined this phrase, and I play it on loop in the back of my mind as an anthem of sorts. It reminds me to always put my authentic foot forward, not necessarily my best. My best foot is more often than not encased in fools’ gold. It is beautiful, polished, hard, and cold. My authentic foot is made of flesh and bone. It is strong and warm with a unique beauty all its own, but it is liable to break because life is hard.

All too often I find myself scrambling over bathroom tiles frantically scooping the pieces of my life into my arms. Then I sit down, let the fragments fall in my lap, and privately glue them together shard by jagged shard. While this is a temporary fix, it lasts long enough for me to collect myself and find an excuse to leave so I can properly fall apart behind closed doors. Oh, sorry, I have to leave now; yeah, I don’t feel very well. Might be food poisoning. But see, I’m smiling, so I am obviously the most emotionally stable person you have ever met. You can always count on me to have it all together---bye now!

Original image credit to Jachan DeVol

This has been the me I have seen in the mirror for as long as I can remember. Now, I consider myself a rather emotionally stable person; however, on those occasions when life leaves me in shambles for whatever reason, my first instinct is to hide because like everyone else, I crave deep connection with other people but believed it to be shamefully embarrassing to allow them to see my weakness. This has only begun to change for me after committing myself to pursuing a life lived to its fullest. I understand now that the being I described in my letter “Can I Just Be First?” includes falling apart. To be authentically human means admitting struggle when it happens and putting away the glue. Granted, there is a time and place for glue. Maturity means not becoming an emotional loose cannon and firing off at every irritating coworker and embarrassing brother. I am not referring to these circumstances but rather the ones that shake you to your core, the rip currents that pull you under the water and hold you there no matter how strong of a swimmer you are.

Thankfully, for me, these occurrences haves decreased (remember the help I suggested?), but they still happen, the most recent having hit me on Easter Sunday. Talk about inconvenient. I used to berate myself for having these moments and accuse my heart of failing to trust God. Trust Him. Believe Him. Remember the mustard seed. It has to be enough. He’s got the whole world in His hands He’s got the whole world in His hands He’s got…the whole…world…hands? What if trusting in God’s protection means something different than my original interpretation? What if the goal is more than staying above the surface but learning to breath under water? I wouldn’t dread drowning anymore, that’s for sure.

I remember standing amidst a crowd of my fellow trainees, singing for joy before a makeshift wooden cross representing Jesus’ completed mission on Earth-------the re--establishment of a broken relationship between humanity and God-------and not absorbing any of it. The celebratory music rolled off my shoulders. I’d stopped paying attention. It is honestly quite mind-boggling to me just how fast I can go from being perfectly fine to not fine at all for no apparent reason. I tried to get into the mood. It was Easter Sunday after all, more commonly referred to as Resurrection Sunday in my church community.

I snuck away to the bathroom hoping some air and privacy would clear my head and allow me to glue myself back together. I am not quite sure why the glue didn’t hold. Maybe it was expired, or I didn’t use the right type or brand. Whatever the reason, even a hug from my sister didn’t make it strong enough. But in that moment, I had a choice: run and hide in my car until it was all over or put my authentic foot forward and silently declare yup, life can still be messy even on Resurrection Sunday.

I walked out of the bathroom with my sister and barely made it back to my seat before the first piece fell and the tears came, a quiet pilgrimage down my cheeks. I caught the piece and held it in my hand. I tried to sing the songs of joy exploding from the stage and the voices around me, but the fear strangled my throat. Fear of what exactly I still have no clue. The pieces of myself continued to crumble. I caught them all and held them in a pile on my lap throughout service. I just held them. I didn’t stick them in my bra or hide them under my dress. I simply let pain glitter on my lap. If anyone noticed, they didn’t say anything.

Wave after wave of fear I couldn’t source pounded my mind. Bible verses tumbled a jumbled mish--mash in and out of my frazzled brain like a radio with poor signal. I couldn’t connect to heaven. But even though I could not remember their exact words, I believed the truth they spoke. No matter what my emotions made me feel, my Jesus would never abandon me. You won’t drown. I promise. I’d found Him, not in my circumstances nor in the people around me but right there inside me. And with Him, peace, the kind I could not explain because I still felt heavy fear holding me in the blackness of deep water. This will pass.

Easter egg dying

I breathed in the relief that comes with safety and felt slightly exhilarated despite the panic. In fact, I almost smiled. I never thought it possible to feel such contrasting emotions at the same time. But I did. We would sit there together until service ended or the storm passed, which ever came first. He didn’t call me selfish for needing His help on a day that celebrated his greatest accomplishment but surrounded my heart with the protection of His love.

By the time service ended, I was practically sobbing. Two of my sisters held my left hand while my dad held my right as we meandered through the happy crowd and greeters wishing everyone a blessed day. I made eye contact and nodded acknowledgment as another tear slipped. For the first time in my life, I wasn’t afraid of them. I felt no shame over my tears. I carried my pain in my arms like a thousand little stars that somehow outshone the sun on this cloudless April afternoon. Nobody stopped me or told me to “be happy” and “have faith.” They let me pass in peace, and I was grateful.

I told my family once that I do not take myself so seriously anymore because I don’t mind being the reason someone smiles. Apparently, some people are so thankful for the gift of laughter they pay for my food (see “Sticky Love”). I will add to this and say I also don’t mind being the reason people remember to be shamelessly human. So, here is me breaking the ice and being the first to admit I am a human being with my fair share of weaknesses and struggles. Some are my fault. Others are not.

Authenticity is, in my mind, one of the most beautiful expressions of strength flowing out of love; love for self because I am content to be where my feet are, even if it is a growing season and I am not yet who I want to be; and love for others because they deserve the truth same as I do from them. We are all in the same boat after all. Life is not a battle between us and them; it is a battle between us and ourselves.

My personal storm did indeed pass like I knew it would, and my faith in a loving God grew with its passing. When people asked me afterwards how my Easter was and what I did, I said “It was good.” I have learned to redefine “good” not as a reflection of my circumstances but as any moment I experience the unconditional love of my Jesus. As for what I did, why, I went to church, ate lunch with some relatives, and solved some riddles to find my Easter basket.

Psst…Authenticity does not mean making your struggles the topic of every conversation. Timing matters. I needed to think and talk about normal life things for a while until I could fully process what happened. This meant, anyone who was not in service with me was not told. No, I did not plaster a big smile on my face and exude playful energy, but I made sure I was pleasant because I genuinely wanted to be there. Here’s a tip: you will know you’re hiding when shame is involved. I was not at all embarrassed about what happened. Still not. I just didn’t want to talk about it yet.

My dear Lovelians, life is a gift, including the messy bitz. I am done hiding mine. What about you? Perhaps, it is not the worst thing in the world when the glue won’t hold?

Stay Curious,

Olivia

P.S. Have some chocolate