Good Grief, Good Truth

Truth is its own reward.

I'm pretty sure that's true. Hoping that's true. I've tried my damnedest to live, like that's true. I've got to tell you though, truth, is one of those things that keep me up at night, worrying. I've watched, as both my father and my ex-husband, have carved out their own version of reality in order to be able to do what it is they want. Their ability to rationalize their addictions, through lying to themselves, in the midst of doing them, is, simply put, astounding. It has destroyed their lives, lost them their families, their jobs, their health, their peace. Lies scare the hell out of me.

Whatever character trait I can blame it on, I was one of those kids who listened when you told them something. If maybe, you said, "Lies are bad, Ang. Don't lie." I would take that to heart. Deeply to heart. And although I can only assume I was a naughty little kid, just like other little kids, I can honestly (heh) say, that I don't remember deliberately lying about something.
But lies we tell other people are easy to spot, and even easier to condemn. The lies we tell ourselves are almost impossible to dig up and dry out. I worry. I worry. Maybe I worry too much, but I've seen what even the smallest of lies can grow into, and I am so afraid of the power of lies, that I sometimes wear myself out with my endless introspection.

Yesterday, through a bizarre, and yet what I choose to believe, God-ordained set of circumstances, I found myself in a writing class, reading an essay about my ex-husband's, ex-girlfriend - the one whom I caught having an affair with my husband. Let's call her J., shall we?. The essay about J. was written by one of her closest friend's, for a writing assignment on a "person you admire". It was a sympathetic account of a girl and her alcoholic boyfriend. Nothing earth shattering. Nothing I didn't really already know, except for the line where it mentioned the, ex-wife, who was continually belittling the girlfriend. The ex-wife, being, me, of course.
I thought I was going to throw up.
Besides the one raging phone call I made to J. when I first found out about the affair, I have tried my outmost to be kind, forgiving, and Christ-like to her. Of course, there have been times, with my closest friends, that I have ranted and raged and grieved and cried. But most days, overall, I try to remind myself of J.'s humanity, of the fact that she's only trying to figure out life like the rest of us, and that sin fucks us all up, sometimes. This is not an easy struggle. It's cost me truck loads of pride, and tears, and sleepless nights, wrestling with God over an anger that could easily have consumed me.
But,
oh,
how I've tried,
so hard,
to be truthful and fair.
Partially, out of vanity. Partially, out of fear. Mostly, because I know it's what I'm asked to do.

So, it hurt like hell to read those words about me.
For whatever reason, through whatever sources of distortion, my attempts have meant nothing to her. She has chosen to believe, twisted the truth, convinced herself, that I hate her, wish her harm, speak poorly of her. I don't know how to battle that.
How do you fight untruth?

I spoke with J.'s friend, the one who had written the piece, after class, and we had a good talk. She seems like a kind person, and, maybe, this interaction with J. and I, through a mediator of sorts, will help us both find a little healing, new directions, maybe a little truth. It's scary to feel so naked with a stranger, with all of her judgments crashing down on me. It's difficult to not be more concerned with defending myself, than with relationships and people. But, as I am praying this hurt through, writing it out, I am reminded of the truths that I hang my life on: that God is truth, that God loves me, and, that the murky places in my life that do not reflect his truth, are under the bright light, cooling breath, of his Spirit. I am - truth and lies - as I have always been, judged by no one but him, in need of, and in gracious receipt of, his ever present mercy.