Arm's Length

Arm’s Length is a cold place to be held. Just far away enough to know that you aren’t allowed in. Just close enough to recognize the dance of niceties, tiptoeing on the line of genuineness. When you’re on the receiving end of the outstretched arm, you’re quick to recognize your position. It’s painful. Confusing. It leaves you with doubt and removes the steadiness from beneath your feet. We’ve all spent time in this shaky, lonely place.

What of the giving end, though? What of the self behind the outstretched arm that says I want you near but not too near; close enough to satisfy my personal need yet not know really know my person. Do we see? Do we know? Is this process a slow, creeping progression, or a quick, sharp movement, and either way, how often are we aware?

I’ve been struggling lately, feeling always on the outskirts of something special. Wondering what it is about me that keeps away the coveted invitations into the inner-lives of those around me. And how easy it is, and what a balm to my bruised, sinful soul, to begin the mental list of errors and faults of those who seemingly implant the distance. And then that still small voice comes in. Oh, that voice. It at once whispers both understanding and gentle reprimand. Its not them, Child.
And some part of my wounded soul knows. It knows that maybe it is I who create the distance, I who push away. What if what I receive as distance from others is only a reflection of what I offer those around me? And some part also knows that regardless of who is to blame, my Creator is asking me to look Him in the face. Like a parent who says “look me in the eye” so they ensure their message gets across. He needs me to see…

But God, I want a friend. You are mine, and there is no friend like Me.

But God, they… No Child, you. This is the conversation of your heart, and it’s about you and Me.

But God, I want them to like me. I want them to see love in you. Do you speak My peace? Do you live My invitation of love? Do you know your worth comes not from the declaration of any man or woman, but from your Creator? I know you through and through and I love you all the same.

He needs me to see that My creator called me to something better. My creator called me to stand, not with hands held out in force to keep the hurting (both the givers and receivers of pain) at bay, but with arms stretched wide in response to His love. With an open heart that says come in, see me, know my faults, see my heart, and I do not fear rejection because I am validated by the one who made me. There is no fear for those who know Him.

I’d love to say the struggle is over, that my proverbial arms won’t slowly rise to their defensive position, or my heart gather its stinging arrows of blame when injured. I can’t. But that still small voice still calls…and calls, and calls and calls. He never tires of singing His song: Child, you are mine and I love you, I love you, I love you. Live boldly because you are loved fiercely.