Ever find yourself telling a dramatic story about something that happened to you? The kind where you embellish details to gain the listener’s sympathy?
Probably I’m the only one who does that.
Anyway, one time, I was telling one of my birth war stories, describing how emotionally difficult it was to have a C-section.
(Come on, if you’ve had a baby, you have your own war stories, am I right?)
Here’s what happened: I am laying there, getting prepped for surgery, numb from the waist down, helpless and alone among strangers — my husband is not allowed in yet — and the doctor and nurses begin discussing the latest movie they’ve seen.
I feel left out, so I try to enter the conversation. They ignore me.
Their insensitivity hurts. I feel like a thing, not a person. Like what matters is their camaraderie on the job, not me.
I feel overwhelmed and abandoned. I start to cry.
The anesthesiologist asks, “Are you in pain?” He asks me this three times over a period of several minutes. Each time, I answer no, but what I want to say is, There’s not just one kind of pain … hello!
Finally, Scott is allowed to come in and comfort me. Samuel David is pulled into the world, and I live to tell the tale … dramatically.
Years later, I’m sharing this story with a few friends. Afterwards, one friend pulls me aside.
“I’ve heard you tell this story before,” she says, “and I’ve noticed that whenever you talk about that doctor, you sound angry and resentful. It seems like you are still bitter toward him.”
What? Me, bitter? No way, I was just trying to play up the drama for everyone!
My friend was right. I thought I’d forgiven the doctor and his team, but I had not. I was still harboring unforgiveness.
It hurt to hear the truth. I didn’t want to face the bitterness in my heart.
It was like looking in a mirror and, to my horror, discovering a big, nasty blemish that’s obvious to everyone.
There was only one right response: I had to take my attitude to God and confess my sin. I had to ask him to cleanse my soul. I didn’t want to go on living in the delusion of self-righteousness.
“Better is open rebuke than hidden love. Faithful are the wounds of a friend; profuse are the kisses of an enemy.” — Proverbs 27:5,6
Here’s the thing: I would rather be confronted in love than not be loved at all. I would rather hear the painful truth than flattering words meant only to stroke my ego.
Even though it’s painful, the truth spoken in love is an agent of change in my life.
So I’m learning to thank God for the faithful wounds I receive from true friends, and for open rebuke when I am out of line.
I recognize that confrontation takes courage, and that it is part of real love.
Think about it: What’s the easy thing to do when you notice your friend or loved one gossiping or cheating on a paper or telling a white lie? Silence, or even going along with it, right?
It’s hard to humbly and lovingly speak up. But which response is going to truly help the other person?
I want to be a faithful friend. I want to be willing to rebuke someone that I care about when they are blind to their own sin.
I want to live out courageous compassion. You, too?
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