So this is it. I am going to fix you. Or at least, I want to.
We are sitting across a table, and you are staring at me, telling me how you feel. You say you’re scared and ashamed and empty. You’ve run out of options and you don’t know what to do anymore. And yet to me, you are brave.
I feel a sort of squeezing deep inside of my chest as you say this, and I feel scared and anxious, too. I could almost throw up I’m so nervous. Because I know after this, after you’ve courageously splayed your heart across this table, reaching out for someone to finally see you, it will be my turn.
And I will need to fix you.
I know that as a Christian, this is what I’m supposed to do. Naturally.
Because if I am to embody Jesus, if I am to show you who Christ is, it is entirely up to me to fix you. I must leave our conversation confident that I, Aliza Naomi Latta, have defeated your demons. That I have single-handedly conquered your darkness.
I must leave with absolute certainty that you are going to be okay. And if you do not leave okay, it will be solely my fault.
I need to save you, or at least cover up your pain so it appears that you are mended. If your pain is too great, or your story too scary, I can rip open a band-aid and cover it up. I can place it gently on your raw, open wounds, smoothing out the edges so it’s hidden and concealed. I can wash my hands, smile at you, say, “All better,” tell you I’ll be praying, and walk away.
And in my eyes, you’re healed. In my eyes, I healed you.
But in my heart, I feel you’re still cracked and splintered. And I feel cracked and splintered, too. In my heart, guilt comes like a tidal wave, hissing that I have let you down, that I haven’t really saved you. In applying this quick ‘n easy band-aid fix, I have made you and your struggle into something small and insignificant, when in reality you’re crucial to this world.
And this? This is the truth: I want to fix you, I feel like I’m supposed to fix you, but I can’t. It’s an impossible feat.
Only the Saviour of the world can do the saving.
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