I used to believe that if I died, no one would come to my funeral. I really believed that. I honestly thought everyone hated me. I used to draw pictures of my empty funeral as a child. I thought my parents would be relieved - that I was a burden. I don't think I have ever told anyone that.
I want someone to grant me room to cry. Someone who wouldn't have a time limit on their caring leaving me feeling like they'd rather run away than grant me a place to be at home in my pain.
I guess that's what real love is: being able to offer a home for someone else's heart. A place where they can set it down and hurt and heal and not want to run, but be able to carve out the space for it, to cradle it and not lay it down on a cold stainless steal table and sit awkwardly with it until it's convenient to excuse oneself and run away.
Real love isn't convenient. Real love offers grace. Real love doesn't mind tear marks and snot stains. Real love builds a home.
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