Gritty, Dark, & Every Man’s Mark

That’s What Supple Dames are Made Out Of

unsplash.com

Lying still on the cold floor, right cheek pressed against the tile in a feeble attempt to revive her memory, she asks herself. What was his name? God, I don’t remember, suddenly shifting to an Indian-style sit-sy. She’s also clutching a fistful of hair, as if to rip some out, while thanking her heavenly father, once again, for keeping her. Elbows shaking as she grips the kitchen table queasily, and miraculously, she pulls herself up from the yoga pose and hopefully back to right-standing.

Commanding herself to breathe, deep, evenly paced breaths return. As fresh air fills her lungs, she curiously scans her mind. Seriously, what just happened? It’s like I’m waking up from a bad dream. Wasn’t I just walking to class? How did I get here? Grimacing, now noticing a severe headache forming, she lifts the back of her hand to wipe her sweaty brow, while checking for a fever. She feels normal, but she’s not. She finally realizes she’s hungover.

Oh. Now, she sees. She failed.

Like a safety counter at work, the reset button has been pressed, and she’s back to day one. How many days was that? She squints to recall. Oh yeah, eleven months and 14 days, a new record, but she’s not in the mood to celebrate.

She’s disgusted.

One cheap night, and now she has to pick up new pieces to add to her already well-defined border of brokenness. Curse it. How many times is it going to take for her to realize she is not alone in this? Her mentor keeps telling her to call if the temptation gets to be too much, but she keeps forgetting. Besides, she doesn’t know anything about being a “good” Christian.

The only way she ever learns anything is through so why should her relationship with Christ be any different? And yet, somehow, it is different. She doesn’t want to take the trip to the health department to get tested for sexually transmitted diseases this time. It’s embarrassing, but she’s so full of fear that she goes time after time. I mean, even less than two years ago, it was like every other month.

She’s read that God loves her, that Christ has set her free to live a victorious life over sin, so why does she keep blowing it? Her fist pounds the wobbly metal table, hoping the inanimate object will let out the scream she can not.

Instead, she faintly whispers.

“Jesus, if you are really here. If you can really help me, please, please take these desires.”

You know I can’t stop alone. I have been lying with various men for years now, each has made his mark on me, but I can’t do it anymore. God, please.”

She reaches for a chair and pulls it out to sit a moment, plopping down with slumped shoulders, and begins to cry.

“Lord, why must I learn everything the hard way?”

She doesn’t remember how long she has been seated in this moment, but she does realize something is different this time.

She’s been saved nearly four years now, and she knows even more than the last time that she should NOT have hopped into bed with this guy. After all, Christ is firmly within her heart, but she admits, it’s been tough.

She no longer uses drugs to numb her pain, so what else is she supposed to do? She also knows she’s an addict through and through and she thoroughly enjoys using lovers as highs.

NO. This madness has got to stop!

Feverishly searching for her Bible, her hand lands on it beneath a stack of psychology textbooks. Relieved, she prays.

“God, I need you. Please answer me now.”

Quietly, nearly indiscernibly, the Holy Spirit meets her in this space, and a couple of words from a Psalm written by David come to mind.

She performs a quick online word search and finds it.

Psalm 34 verse 18, she reads, “The Lord is close to the brokenhearted and saves those who are crushed in spirit.”

Yes. My God, yes. That’s what I really need. I need YOU.

She closes the good book confidentially and presses it into her delicate chest. The warmth of her Savior is here. His breeze gently fills her spirit, and she is sorry. She is very sorry, and she thanks the Lord for humbling her. For helping her to see the wickedness in the choices she’s making, and she weeps loud, bitter, cleansing tears.

This gritty dame finally realizes something.

It is through her brokenness that Christ shines brightest. It’s not by ignoring each crack, or trying to separate herself from her bad habits and affection towards men.

No, it is simply by embracing the very fabric of who she is that has created the dynamic resiliency she is experiencing right now.

There will always be plenty of men, on plenty of occasions, to sweep her off her feet and right off into his bed, but she recognizes that none of them will ever fill her like Jesus. He is making something different.

Not a one of them, not even a husband, perhaps two decades in, could reach this sacred oven. It is Christ’s throne room, and it is only accessible to Him because it was created by him, for his glory alone.

Perhaps, the dark matter, splash of diethyl ether, and a couple of siren tails are not what little girls are made of, but grit and darkly founded determination have created an unparalleled loyalty, and Jesus and she are thick as thieves.

None of the glorious freedom, nor the healing rhythms she’s experiencing in Christ, would be possible apart from the ingredients God used to fashion her.

No sugar, no spice, and not much nice, but this dame is certain. Life, nor death, nor a man, nor many will ever be able to separate her from the cookie sheet of His eternal love, and armed with that newfound, never to be taken away from her knowledge, she understands that she is what she is, and she continues.

© Freshly Squeezed Chronicles