“To love is to be vulnerable,” she says.
I feel it in my bones. In between the lines of arguments in the family group chat.
I feel it when I visit her in the retirement residence and she grabs my hand.
I feel it, the older he gets and the more I call him, depend on him. Get used to his stories.
When I text him first.
When I say “I miss you.”
We were eleven when I told her every single secret I had.
And then I turn fifteen and I’m hiding in the backseat of my parent’s car as she walks home, without me.
And ten years later, he breaks up with me in the corner of the cafe. And I tell her I’d rather not date again.
If I’m not careful, I hide vulnerability in the bottom drawer like the summer’s worn-out clothes.
And I’m twenty-seven, standing in the church at half-past eleven when I think about Him hanging on the cross in His bare skin.
The most vulnerable act.
“I feel myself allowing the distance to grow between us,” I tell her. Like a good friend, she tells me to soften. To reach out.
Because what if He didn’t?
And perhaps the reason I’m struggling to be vulnerable is because I am avoiding the act of worship more often than I should.
Because that’s easier. Easier not to relinquish control. Not to acknowledge my need for Him. Not to hold my plans with open hands.
But if you don’t live with open hands, it’s hard to live with open arms. Open heart.
“Love is the antidote to fear,” she texts the three of us on a Wednesday morning.
And I’m twenty-seven, standing in the church at half-past eleven when I think about Him hanging on the cross in His bare skin.
A vulnerability so terrifying that Fear cannot bear the sight of it.
A love so bold that Fear trembles in the face of it.
Fear of loss. Fear of rejection.
Cowering in the bold face of vulnerability. Of Perfect Love.
And that’s the image I have in my mind when she calls me on a Friday night and tells me we might as well talk it out.
Because we’re choosing a new way.
A vulnerable way.
The way of the cross.
“We love because he first loved us.” 1 John 4:19
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