“What’s your address? Don’t ask any questions! I’m working on something.”
A few days into my forced bedrest because of muscle spasms in my back, a friend sent me this message on Facebook. Little did I know at the time that the “something” she was working on was meals for my family while I’m incapacitated as well as arranging for someone to do our laundry. (I declined the latter. Judge me, if you will, but I’m particular about who sees and touches my dirty clothes.)
Two of the meals (and to clarify, one of the “meals” was three meals!) were made and delivered by people I’ve never met, and the friend who arranged this act of love drove herself almost an hour from her house to mine. (I should also mention that this friend and I have only seen each other in person one time before this, at a weekend retreat years ago. But we’re all over the Facebook universe.)
Who does that?
I asked my husband this more than once.
This was not the only way we were loved that week.
Who goes out, on purpose, on the coldest day of winter to bring food to a family?
Who spends their day off making a meal for others?
Who offers to bring soup when they’ve got a houseful of kids to care for, too?
Who shows up on less than an hour’s notice to care for two rowdy kids and help an overwhelmed husband walk his wife to the car while she cries out in agony on the way to the chiropractor?
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“Do you have difficulty receiving good things?”
This question from my therapist haunts me. It’s been months since she asked it, and I’m still mulling the answer.
It’s complicated.
I’ve long believed I only deserve something if I’ve earned it, and I’ve forever rationalized my family’s love with, “Well, they’re just doing that because they have to.”
Can you imagine living like this? Never believing anyone could love you whether you did anything or not?
I can’t identify the source of this erroneous thinking. All I know is I’ve been feeling this way about God, too. Somewhere along the way, I stopped believing He is good and that He loves me.
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And then, when I was utterly helpless, love showed up.
When my therapist walked me to my car because I could hardly stand without pain.
When my husband left work early two days in a row to help me.
When my kids spent their four-day weekend cooped up in the house with me, bringing me food and learning to do laundry.
When my husband would come home from work, exhausted, and turn up the tunes to wash dishes with the kids.
When the snow fell for 24 hours straight and he shoveled the driveway and took the kids out to build a fort.
When the meals poured in from unexpected sources.
All of these actions screamed a message I couldn’t ignore:
You are loved.
You are loved.
You are loved.
I don’t have to earn it. The best kind of love isn’t earned. It is given over and over again.
I am loved. Even when I am stuck in bed and my house is a mess and I’ve binge-watched Gilmore Girls for weeks.
I am loved. Period. End of story.
And so are you.
What keeps you from believing it?