Rules of love

I recently decided to end a relationship. Maybe not forever, but the break is indefinite.

A little background. A distant friend, a young woman I’ve known since she was about four years old, has had a tough life. I will call her Jesse.

I can count on one hand the number of times I’ve spent with Jesse. Not many. Sure, she was there at lots of big family-and-friends events, the weddings and graduations and birthday parties common to a shared community. When we connected in a smaller group, just the two or three or four of us, though, these events were casual and infrequent, the result of those, “Hey, we should get together and …” suggestions tossed over the heads of other friends in stadium seats or standing in line at the wedding reception buffet.

Jesse has been part of my fringe community, the folks I keep up with on Facebook, but we haven’t been close. Until a few months ago, I would have described Jesse as beautiful and kind, capable, smart. A go-getter. Hardworking. Admirable.

And while those things are true, Jesse is dark things, too. She has secrets.

I saw Jesse at a funeral in the spring. A mutual friend was there, who confided to me, “Jesse is not doing well.”

After the funeral, Jesse and I began to get together, first at her house, then we had lunch, followed by a coffee date, and a walk in the park. Jesse began to share her story with me. It was a difficult one to hear.

It was even more difficult to hold. Here’s why:

I have a long history of unhealthy behaviors and toxic relationships. I’ve done a superb job of teaching people and things how to treat me badly, how to keep secrets—my own and others’—and turn perfectly nice things like food and books and even people into painkillers.

It would be easy for me to point and judge and condemn, and I’ve spent lots of years doing all three. My dad was an alcoholic, my mom had borderline personality disorder, my late husband was addicted to a handful of scary things, blah-blah-blah.

These folks are no longer alive. But I am. I ride the crazy bus now and again, but I’m learning a better way. Lots of better ways, in fact, ways that are healing and God-honoring and full of grace and light.

Part of my recovery process has been to take what I’ve learned, the few tidbits here and there, and offer them back to others. To listen, mostly, and then speak a little love to folks on my path. It’s my twelfth step, pure and simple: Having had a spiritual awakening as the result of these steps, we tried to carry this message to others, and to practice these principles in all our affairs.

So, over the years, I've bumped into people who want a series of long coffee dates and a kind ear. Just like Jesse.

But not like Jesse at all. For reasons I’m struggling with, I can’t have a healthy relationship with her, even though I’ve been able to come alongside other friends in need. I don’t fully understand why. I have journaled and journaled about my inability to stay lovingly detached from Jesse, examining why my heart races when I see a text message from her, why I don’t sleep well following a get-together, why the thought of ending our relationship makes me feel so nauseas, I think I might actually throw up. Co-dependence at its very finest.

I’ve talked with Matt and friends who understand my dilemma, some Jesus-followers, some not, all wise and beloved. Although the majority opinion was, to paraphrase, “Keep being available to her and see where this takes you both,” I said no.

No.

I ended my relationship with Jesse. I was gentle. She left in silence. I am sleeping better.

There is a committee of voices in my head (thanks for the image, Al-Anon), and they vie for my attention. Sometimes, they say unhelpful things, like, “A cheeseburger sounds amazing,” or “You are selfish to avoid a person who is hurting.”  I’m learning that sometimes, the voices are driven by fear, a need for approval, or an urge to run. I’m learning to say to those voices, “Oh, there you are. I know you. Hey, let’s listen to some other voices, too, shall we? The Scriptures and song lyrics and wise words of our fellow travelers? Let’s all be quiet for a moment, so we can hear them, too.”

When I said good-bye to Jesse, I created enough space to hear those other voices.

One of them is Don Miller. A friend said to him, “Don, some people are not safe.” Another said to him about ending relationships with unhealthy people, “My heart is worth protecting.” And another is a question Miller himself asks: “How many people have damaged their own lives by mistaking enablement for grace?”

Well.

Here are some other things my heart knows when it gets quiet:

Jesus told us that the most important thing we’ll ever do is love. He invited people into love over and over again. But he had some ground rules about love, like tell the truth and live in light and keep your word and take care of the vulnerable, just to name a few of the big ones. When Jesus encountered people who didn’t respect the rules of love, he gently walked on. He still loved them, make no mistake. But He didn’t hang out with them.

Consider the story Jesus told about the prodigal son. The father in the story gladly gave the kid, who had all sorts of identity issues, his full inheritance, which the boy ran off with posthaste. But, as a wise counselor once told me, the dad didn’t then chase after his boy to make sure his head landed on a soft pillow every night. Until his son embraced the rules of love, the two didn't live in the same zip code. Did the father still love his boy? I'm certain of it.

Or, how about the rich young ruler who loved his stuff more than people? Jesus, we are told, loved him. And the invitation He’d issued, the one to enter into love, was never withdrawn. But Jesus didn’t say, “Hey, know what? Keep your unhealthy attachment to your possessions. It’s all good.” No. It wasn’t all good, and Jesus let the young man walk away to figure that out.

  

I haven’t given up hope. Jesse is worth a king’s ransom, and from a distance, I can safely pray for exactly that. For both of us.