Have you ever been just straight-up exhausted? And not from lack of sleep, but from trying?
Sometimes effort is wearying. It drags me down and threatens to suffocate the strength I have left.
Over the last 4 weeks, I've been placing a significant amount of effort into a single relationship. It's a meaningful one to me, and has been a major source of support in the past. But as we began growing further and further apart this school year, I questioned why I still cared. Why, even though I felt ignored, did I still desire to be present?
C.S. Lewis has a brilliant quote which I have loved for a long time. He says,
Sometimes effort is wearying. It drags me down and threatens to suffocate the strength I have left.
Over the last 4 weeks, I've been placing a significant amount of effort into a single relationship. It's a meaningful one to me, and has been a major source of support in the past. But as we began growing further and further apart this school year, I questioned why I still cared. Why, even though I felt ignored, did I still desire to be present?
C.S. Lewis has a brilliant quote which I have loved for a long time. He says,
“To love at all is to be vulnerable. Love anything and your heart will be wrung and possibly broken. If you want to make sure of keeping it intact you must give it to no one, not even an animal. Wrap it carefully round with hobbies and little luxuries; avoid all entanglements. Lock it up safe in the casket or coffin of your selfishness. But in that casket, safe, dark, motionless, airless, it will change. It will not be broken; it will become unbreakable, impenetrable, irredeemable. To love is to be vulnerable.”
I had been vulnerable in this relationship. I had given myself in so many ways, and it had been mutually beneficial. But something changed. Somehow, that vulnerability turned sour for both of us, and our closeness ultimately became our downfall.
Because we both loved, our hearts were subsequently wrung and broken.
I am changing. She is changing. And we are changing differently, in two separate directions. This led to a semi-dramatic week in which neither of us knew how to interact with the other, and were each afraid of approaching the topic. I did all that I could, but it ended up only escalating the distance. I can only speak for myself, but it was out of a fear of hurting her that I ran from the confrontation.
It hurts, and deeply.
When we finally spoke again, we came to a painful conclusion: things cannot be as they were. Because we are each changing so drastically, we cannot go back to the way we were friends back in May.
It is now tempting to distance myself from any sort of vulnerability at all, to isolate myself in my room and pretend to solely be diligent with my work. It is tempting to feign holiness and prayerfulness and just-fine-ness. It is tempting to run from any other relationship, no matter how deep or superficial, for fear of being hurt once again.
But I know better than any of that. Because our Lady felt isolated at the foot of the Cross, as well, and our Lord was abandoned by His friends in His greatest hour of need. And yet they continued to be there for others, giving of themselves even when it appeared that they had nothing left to give. {Of course, they both had the benefit of perfection of their side ... I am far from perfection.}
If I am called to give of myself, from the depths of my heart, then I will be supplied the graces to do so. And if I am called to change in even greater ways than I already have, I will most definitely be given all the tools and supports that I need to put that change into effect.
Heartache can be a prompt for good things, I am finding. And while this isn't necessarily a lesson I wanted to learn right now, perhaps it is a lesson I needed.
Because we both loved, our hearts were subsequently wrung and broken.
I am changing. She is changing. And we are changing differently, in two separate directions. This led to a semi-dramatic week in which neither of us knew how to interact with the other, and were each afraid of approaching the topic. I did all that I could, but it ended up only escalating the distance. I can only speak for myself, but it was out of a fear of hurting her that I ran from the confrontation.
It hurts, and deeply.
When we finally spoke again, we came to a painful conclusion: things cannot be as they were. Because we are each changing so drastically, we cannot go back to the way we were friends back in May.
It is now tempting to distance myself from any sort of vulnerability at all, to isolate myself in my room and pretend to solely be diligent with my work. It is tempting to feign holiness and prayerfulness and just-fine-ness. It is tempting to run from any other relationship, no matter how deep or superficial, for fear of being hurt once again.
But I know better than any of that. Because our Lady felt isolated at the foot of the Cross, as well, and our Lord was abandoned by His friends in His greatest hour of need. And yet they continued to be there for others, giving of themselves even when it appeared that they had nothing left to give. {Of course, they both had the benefit of perfection of their side ... I am far from perfection.}
If I am called to give of myself, from the depths of my heart, then I will be supplied the graces to do so. And if I am called to change in even greater ways than I already have, I will most definitely be given all the tools and supports that I need to put that change into effect.
Heartache can be a prompt for good things, I am finding. And while this isn't necessarily a lesson I wanted to learn right now, perhaps it is a lesson I needed.