Dents

This past Sunday was one of the rare weeks that I got to sit in for the sermon instead of running around with fussy kids.

Chad talked about dents in his sermon. He told the story of how their new car got broken into, and how even though it was barely scratched up--except for the handles of the car door--every time he looked at the car, all he saw were the dents.

He went on to say that sometimes that's the way we view our lives. We pay attention only to the dents, never mind that the car was still functioning, and nothing was stolen.

I sat in the pews thinking, well, I don't think I'm doing too badly. God only knows how many dings and scratches I've experienced, but I was pretty confident I had moved past all of that and that they no longer defined me.

And then this week came.

Unexpected news hit right smack in the middle of my week. I knew deep inside I needed this news to bring closure to something that happened years ago. But at the same time, it made me pay attention to that dent from years ago all over again.

Seven years feel like a long time for a recovery period. I've always thought no matter how deep the pain, I was strong enough to not need a long recovery period. Life goes smooth-sailing(ish) for a while with its occasional ups and downs, I almost forget what those periods of deep pain feel like.

Like a summer spent aimlessly, and almost completely alone, grieving over a broken heart.
Or when life slips away, and nights are spent occupying the mind with activity to numb the pain so that when the head hits the pillow, consciousness leaves immediately, only to return less than a few hours later, crying and wanting to scream but they only come out as strange animal noises.

They say we shouldn't let our dents define us because the Creator sees more in us than just the dents. But to pretend that the dents don't hurt when they do is cheating ourselves of the experience of humanity--the very reason for our existence in the first place. For if we don't know what it means to be human, how can we even begin to understand love?

We forgive, and we let go. But sometimes I wonder if to simply forget is depriving ourselves of the opportunity to learn important lessons.

15 years have passed since that episode where my identity became defined as the trash can that collected everyone's crap only to be set out on the streets waiting for the trash collection truck that never came. I've since made peace with that episode and reconciled with the characters involved, but not a day passes that I have to intentionally choose to not continue to be defined as a trash can.

Some days I do it better than others.
Some days the dents hurt more than others.
Some days I cry about the old dents more than others.

But I'm only human.
To feel pain is only human.

And I keep writing.
Keep sharing stories.

For what purpose are stories, if not to make the journey of another a little less alone?