I don’t want to share. Yes, I know that I am supposed to be the grown up but there is still an indignant child inside me who wants the last piece of pie and my turn to lie on the couch. I don’t like when my quiet evening is interrupted again by an insomniac child or my few stolen afternoon moments to recharge are punctuated by “Mom, I’m bored. Can I watch TV yet?”
Then I hear the still small voice speak to me. “Will you share it all with me? Not just the pretty parts, or the easy bits. Will you bring me your deepest struggles and secret pain?”
Because he knows it all anyway. But in the act of handing it over, I must surrender my illusions. I am not in control. I don’t like this. I like being in charge. Being dependent on others makes me nervous. I would rather do things myself when I know I can do it better. But when I encounter things I’m not familiar with, I also fear my insufficiency.
My confidence is no match for his all sufficient power. My limitations crumble beneath his boundless love. The only barrier, metaphorical though it may be, is my willingness to let him in. To lay down my pride, release my grip on my rights and let myself be rescued, even when I don’t realize I’m drowning.