Found in Chosenness

What makes something valuable is harder to pin down than it seems. Value can't just be a feeling. Some days I don't feel valuable at all, and I don't think that means I lost it. It can't only be measured by what we do either. If it could, the first time we did something wrong we'd be worth less than we were the day before.

We don't even value things that way. We keep mementos, heirlooms, and old shoes long past their usefulness. My wife calls them cute. A ruby isn't valuable because of what it does. Its value is ascribed to it, placed on it by someone who decides it's worth something.

That's the hard part. We don't get to choose our own value. It's placed on us by the one who chooses us. The truest kind of value isn't being chosen for what I do or how I benefit you. It's being chosen for what you see in me, by a love that sometimes sees more worth in me than I see in myself.

When we feel unchosen long enough, especially early in life, a story grows around the hurt: I'm unchosen because I'm not enough. The more hurt, the more practiced the story, until it settles into a belief. No one will ever love me the way I long for. Then when someone finally moves toward us, we can't take it in. They must want something. My value must be in my usefulness, because I've never felt valued apart from what I do.

That belief invalidates every attempt at love before it reaches the heart. We discount it, put up walls, lean on a front of self-sufficiency. And because you haven't seen my heart, I become terrified to show it to you. The closer you get, the more I hope, and the more it will hurt when it fails.

God loves us with our hearts still in a box. While we were still sinners, Christ died for us. He loves first and enters our experience so we'll trust him enough to open the door. And we don't open it well. We open it vulnerably, clunky, in need of reassurance. His grace is sufficient for that. His strength is made perfect in our weakness.

God rarely rescues us from suffering. He didn't rescue himself either. He knows the pain of suffering for one you love. That’s why he runs toward ours, embraces it in all its pain and shame, and walks through it with us. There's an intimacy that only comes through shared suffering. He invites us into his and wants to be invited into ours. Much of the pain in our marriages comes from each of us suffering alone. We haven't learned how to be with one another in shared pain.

Heaven will have no more tears. The intimacy we build through shared suffering here, we carry into eternity. Joining someone in their suffering may be the greatest gift we can give this side of heaven.

Marriage works the same way. You don't love your spouse for everything they do for you. They don't do it perfectly or consistently, and you still love them. You find them worthy of your love, and so they are. Your spouse loves you the same way, because you're you.

Underneath the hurts and stories is something like this: I love you with the pain you carry, not in spite of it. Your wounds matter to me, even if I caused them. If my suffering with you could set you free, why wouldn't I?

You are the thing your spouse longs for. Not your behaviors, not a checkbox, not perfection. Just you. You can see it in what happens when they can't reach you. Some of us pursue harder, get frantic, try to control. Some of us shut down, withdraw, disappear. All of it because we don't have each other.

You're already chosen. The path back to each other can be learned. It just takes some risk, some failure, and a lot of grace.

For reflection:
When your spouse moves toward you, what do you tend to tell yourself about why?
Where do you notice yourself discounting love before it reaches you?
What pain have you been carrying alone that you could invite your spouse into?

-Aron Strong, LMFT