(Image taken from Google Images- Plugged in Movie Review)
Cue the lights. Camera focuses in on the faces of two apparent lovers. There is intensity in their eyes, and by the expression on his face he is confused. The countenance of hers is laced with familiar anxiety mingled with a determined effort to remain strong. Her world has been flipped upside down lately. Years of securing her little box of hurts with clenching white knuckles has become too much. As her fingers slip abruptly in surrender, the lock busts open and the content of the box shamelessly spills out in the broad light of day. With no blanket of night to cover herself, she is entirely exposed.
Trembling hands accompany her effort to pick up the fragmented pieces. There are so many, and she is not certain of how they all fit together. Some seem vaguely familiar, others appear as cloaked strangers. She had buried them for so long that her mind has no concious memory of them. Regardless, fingers pinch and grasp at every small particle she can find. She wants to keep it together. She NEEDS to keep it together, but the only way to the other side of this is through. She must walk through it.
Uncertain of the journey, she attempts to take a step forward. As clumsy feet begin to flail and thump, loving hands grab hold to steady her. These are the soft, familiar hands of a loved one. Hands that have held her, stroked her hair, wiped her tears. Hands that have always extended forth to offer security and a safe place to fall.
As day turns to day, one stretching forth into another, many such hands thrust forward with their offerings of love and support. Ears become attentive, words become soft, hope is hailed in confident tones. She is loved. She is stronger. Striding forth with purpose on the path of “through”, she is mindful that one is unaware. He is so new, and their love is so fresh … just a sprout. Can such a small thing, an infantile and immature thing, bear such a weight?
Gathering the pieces in her hands she lays them out before him as an offering, “Can you love all of these?”, she vulnerably asks. His voice softens, hesitates a bit, and honesty peppers his words, “I will do the best that I can.” Not heroic, but honest. She loves honest. She takes a deep breathe and surrenders herself to the unknown.
Some days feel almost “normal” again, others, her mind swims in a sea of unbridled emotion and torment. She seems to swing from one pole to the other, uncertain if she is facing North or South. Her family listens well, therapist helps shrink the brain, Jesus comforts her soul, and on some evenings her fresh love, that infantile and immature one, holds her in his arms… and she feels loved.
Weeks. Days always blend into weeks. Therapy continues, job resumes, Joy returns to contend with North and South; most times Joy wins, there are moments that he loses. Fear, anxiety, and panic — the faithful three — attempt to visit often, but she is still standing. No more running. Just determined to walk through. Her family listens well, therapist helps shrink the brain, Jesus comforts her soul, and the weight begins to bend the sprout, press against the fresh love — that infantile and immature love, and she spends less time in his arms.
This journey has taught her intuition. The ability to listen to herself and offer trust. This is something she was suspicious of before. How does the “deep” her know more than the her that wears the skin? No explanation. She just knows it to be so, and decides to follow it out.
Serious, yet gentle voices speak to one another. “Deep” her asks the new love if the sprout is beginning to succumb to the weight of the open box. The truth is, she understands if it has. After all, it is just a new thing, a fresh thing, an infantile and immature thing. Such things can scarcely bear the weight of themselves, yet alone the load of an emptied box such as hers. But still there is hope. Sprouts can be surprisingly strong, though not commonly so.
The new love confirms the intuition with loving and gentle words. As painfully as the ear receives them, she is aware that they are pregnant with wisdom. She knows that he is right. As much as she doesn’t want it to be so, so it is. She allows herself to feel. To cry. To hurt. She decides not to bury it deep, to create a new box where all her hurt can be locked away until something forces it to the surface. There is a slight moment when she wonders, “Is this the part where he runs frantically to my house, tears open my front door, and professes his undieing love for me? Where we both mockingly laugh at wisdom and say ‘love conquers all’?”. But this is not a RomCom, and they are not Adam Sandler and Drew Barrymore in 50 First Dates. She is she and he is he.
So… she lets go. She surrenders. She accepts. She prays God’s best for him, and prays God’s best for her. And with that, she continues her journey on the path of “through”.