Who Will Understand Me?

Who will understand me? I don’t even understand myself. I live a life in a mix of pain and leisure. Leisure and luxury on the surface. Pain inside. But why do I suffer? Only for my own sins. There is no point in my suffering, because all the misery is caused by my own lack of character, lack of wisdom and lack of self-control. I hurt the ones I love. Over and over. I never planned to hurt them, I never planned to make them suffer. I even spend a lot of time thinking about how to improve myself and find other ways to behave in order to bless them instead of curse them. But time after time, in the lull of everyday life, I do or say something that causes deep damage. In an instant I go from trusted ally to hurtful enemy. I go from dependable rock to threatening offender. And then the reconciliation process, the regrets, the crying and the promises of change for the better. Of not doing it again. But how can I keep making such promises? Sure, I don’t do exactly the same thing again. But variations thereof. Patterns of hurt. Sometimes I innovate and hurt in completely new ways. I am as surprised as the receiver. Don’t get me wrong — I usually have a great reason for what I say or do, and it’s almost never to hurt anyone. I just misinterpret the situation, or am so focused on one small point of the context that I completely miss consequences that afterward seem to have been obvious. And since they were obvious, my behavior was unacceptable. So what about the fact that I could genuinely not see them coming before I said or did what I said or did? Does it make me a freak, perhaps even

a psychopath?

Many a time have I considered changing my mode of operation away from the spontaneous buzz of thoughts that signifies my very direct style of communication. I have fantasized about becoming meticulously aware of every word and each possible effect it might have before I would let any of them leave my mouth. I imagine cutting down my communication by 90 % and being perfectly shielded from the possibility of ever hurting anyone. Even as I write this, I worry it might somehow betray the trust of those I love. But who could I talk to? Who would understand?

I dream of becoming a man of God. Someone who daringly speaks the words of truth that set people free. Someone who brings hope and freedom to the downcast and the bound. Jesus is the only thing that is real in this world. The knowledge of him and his liberating love for us is the only thing I have that is of any value. My degrees, my strong personality, my skills, my belongings and even my relationships and family — all of them will fade away. But to belong to Christ, to be one of his.

This will last forever.

But how could I ever pretend to have something to offer anyone if my own life only testifies of lacking character and is filled with poor choices and hurtful words? How could I be the messenger of the ultimate declaration of love, if the emotional scars of those around me scream for the just shedding of my blood? Or is it just this. Could this be what it means that God put his treasure in jars of clay, as it says in 2 cor 4:7:

But we have this treasure in jars of clay to show that this all-surpassing power is from God and not from us.

Perhaps my striving for self-betterment is in vain. Perhaps I don’t have to become a role model and a flawless man before sharing the gospel. Perhaps my shortcomings are an even greater magnifier that the death-defeating power, the unspeakable glory and the incomprehensible depths of love stem from God and God alone. I am being transformed to be more like him, but not through the power of my efforts, but by the grace he gives me through the faith I have been granted.