Love Warrior

by Glennon Doyle Melton

  Craig’s eyes widen and he says, “Really? Let me make you something. Can I make you some real food?” Now his voice sounds excited, almost frantic.

  When I got sober, I quit bingeing and purging, but I never really learned to feed myself. A lifetime of bingeing was enough to prove to me that my appetite was animalistic and shameful. It was not to be trusted, so I locked it away. I treated my hunger like a prisoner. I doled out daily rations of food-like products—tiny portions of bars, shakes, juices, leftovers—anything that would get me by without awaking my inner glutton. Little girl: Don’t hunger. I decided about food the same thing fundamentalists decide about religion: Enough rules will keep us safe from ourselves. But suddenly I want to feed myself, and Craig wants to feed me. I am starting to feel real and I need real food. So I say, “Yes, please.”

  Craig goes to the refrigerator and I follow, and even though it is only eleven in the morning, we work side by side making cheeseburgers, baked potatoes, and salad. The smell of the burgers fills the kitchen and once, when I reach over, Craig touches my hand. I do not pull away. Not right away, at least. When we’re done preparing the meal, Craig takes my plate and fills it to the edges.

  We sit down at the table and Craig says grace: “Help our family please, Amen.” I look at my plate and feel overwhelmed. There are no directions here, no clear-cut boundaries, no single servings, no wrappers, no scoop to measure what is okay for me to have and what is too much. Nothing to protect me from my appetite. How will I know where to start or when to stop? I look over at Craig and see that he is already eating. How is this so easy for him? I look at my salad and think, I should start there, but then I see the burger and it suddenly seems imperative that I ignore the should of my mind and respond instead to the want of my body. I pick up my burger and sink my teeth into it. Some of it crumbles and a river of juices and ketchup runs down my hand. I don’t want to lose any of it, so I lick it off. Then I take another bite and chew and it feels like some sort of heaven; it feels like loving myself. And then the panicky feeling arises inside of me, but I tell myself to resist the urges to push the burger away or to swallow it whole. I can go slow and enjoy this. No one is going to take it from me. This plate is mine and I am allowed to have it all. I take another bite and sigh from the juicy joy. If I get too full, I can just be still. Fullness will pass, and I will survive.

  Then I notice Craig watching me. He is witnessing my hunger, my burger ecstasy. I feel ridiculous, guilty, like I’ve been caught breaking the rules. But Craig is smiling. There is no scorn in his eyes, just a mixture of joy and relief. He is looking at me like he’s wondering where I’ve been. I tell myself, It’s okay for a woman to hunger, Glennon. It’s okay for her to satisfy her appetite, to enjoy all the juiciness. Remember, don’t be a lady—be a Warrior. The Warrior feeds all three of her selves: mind, spirit, body. I breathe deeply and then start on the potatoes. Eat until you’re full. Trust your body to guide you. Treat yourself like someone you love, Glennon. Listen to what you want and need and give it to yourself. Be your own friend.

  * * *

  Later that night, after the kids are tucked in, I pass Craig. He’s sitting at the kitchen table, staring at his hands. He looks nervous. He says, “Would you mind if we practiced talking?”

  I say, “What? Practice talking?”

  “Yeah. I know it sounds weird, but it’s really hard for me to listen and respond right. You’re good at conversation, so every time you want to talk, I feel afraid that I’m going to say the wrong thing. That’s why I zone out. Ann says it’s a fight-or-flight thing. I think this is why I forget what you’ve said sometimes, because I’m not really there. I just assumed I couldn’t do it. Ann just thinks I’m out of practice, though. It’s weird, I know. She said I should practice talking and listening.”

  I sit down in a chair on the other side of the table. “Not weird,” I say. “I get it. Sometimes I feel that way when I’m touched. Threatened, I guess, so I just check out. I’ve been practicing staying in my body. That’s what all the yoga is about. I think eating is a part of it, too. I always thought my body was broken. But maybe not. Maybe I’m just out of practice, too.”

  Craig sits still for a moment and then says quietly, “I love you. I want to know you. I know the way to you is through your mind. I’m trying to learn how to get there.”

  There is plenty of silence before I reply. “If you’ve never gotten to me, how do you know you love me?”

  “I want to love you. I want to know you so I can love you well. I need you, but I want to love you, too.”

  “I get that, too. I do. I have to learn to use my body to reach you and you have to learn to use your mind to reach me. It’s like ‘The Gift of the Magi’ or something.”

  Craig looks blank. “The what?”

  “‘The Gift of the Magi.’”

  “What’s that? Wait. Hold on.” Craig pushes his chair back and disappears into the kitchen. He returns with a notebook and a pen. He sits down and starts writing.

  “What are you doing?” I ask.

  “I need to take notes. Ann suggested it. I know this is easy for you, but it’s not for me. I think I’m going to have to write things down for a while. To remember.”

  I’d watched Craig feed his body and I’d marveled at how easy it was for him. Right, I think, I’m learning to feed my body. He’s learning to feed his mind. So since he fed me, I feed him. I tell him the story of “The Gift of the Magi.” It is the story of a couple with so little money and so much love that she sells her beautiful hair so she can buy him a watch chain and he sells his prized pocket watch so he can buy hair combs for her. They each sacrifice the object in which their identity is wrapped and they are left with nothing remaining to prove their worth to the world. But they have proved their worth to one another. They are lovers of each other, and that identity is truer than was her beauty or his status. They are left with the truth and the truth is love.

  After the story Craig turns to a fresh page in his notebook. He says, “I know you’re tired, but can you please tell me a story from when you were little?” So I tell him about Miracle. I tell the story I’ve told many times before, but he hears it for the first time. He leans forward with his body, asks questions, makes eye contact that is so intense and steady I have to look away again and again. Twice, we laugh, together. It’s real, spontaneous laughter and it moves the air around us—the air that has grown so stale—and I wish the kids were awake to hear it. It sounds like hope. And I understand that shared laughter is sacred because it’s proof that two people are right there at their surfaces with each other—they’ve come up for air together; neither has sunk away inside herself—both are right there, trying to touch. As we laugh I think, Is this space we’re in right now love? Are we in love right now? Can you only be in love with someone as often as you are fully present? How did we get here? Is it safe for me here?

  I look at the clock and it’s midnight. Craig sees me notice the time and he says, “Go to sleep. You need to take care of yourself. I’ll clean up.” And I look down at my body and think, Yes, this is my self. I need to take care of her.

  I look at Craig and say, “Thank you.” I walk to my room, climb under the sheets, and fall asleep.

  13

  I WAKE UP, and since the sun is already streaming into my room, I know I’ve overslept. Damnit, the kids will be late for school. I stumble out of my room and into the kitchen, which is filled with the smells of breakfast. I’m grateful to see that the kids are already dressed for school and waiting at the table. Craig points to a plate and I sit down. He puts an omelet on the plate in front of me. I consider waving it away. I’d just eaten last night, after all. But then I notice the girls watching me. I check in with myself. My body wants the omelet, so I eat it. Then I eat two slices of toast and I drink a glass of orange juice and I feel ecstatic again, like I’m participating in a family celebration that’s been happening right under my nose, three times a day. I’ve been missing it all this time. I cle
ar the plates and Craig says he’ll handle carpool. I kiss the kids good-bye, finish the dishes, sit back at the table, and wonder what to do with myself. Writing is still off limits, there’s three more days until therapy, and I cannot handle any more yoga for a while. What next? I sit and consider what Ann, Allison, and Amy have all said to me: “You need to breathe, Glennon. Don’t forget to breathe.” Every time I hear this breathe advice, I roll my eyes. I know how to breathe, I think. But then I remember that I just learned how to eat yesterday. I remind myself I’m starting over. I’m unbecoming.

  I walk over to my computer and enter: “Naples, Florida, breathing” into the search browser. I click on a link and I’m taken to a page about teaching the use of breath as a healing tool. You’ve got to be kidding, I think. I look closely and see that a class is being held five miles from my house, in the very same building where Craig delivered the News. The next step on my path lights up in front of me.

  * * *

  A few nights later, I find myself in a carpeted lobby surrounded by other people who apparently don’t know how to breathe either. Soft meditative music is playing and there’s a water feature running in each corner. The walls are covered with pictures of caterpillars turning into butterflies and quotes about caterpillars turning into butterflies and shelves display several statues of caterpillars turning into butterflies. It’s warm and cocoon-like in here, and I’m grateful for it; I feel cozy and safe. Our breathing teacher sits cross-legged up front. Her name is Liz. Liz has long hair and she’s wearing a T-shirt and jeans with a beaded necklace and no makeup. She tells us to roll out our mats and lie down. There are quite a few of us in this small room; we’re close enough to hear each other’s breath and smell each other’s smells. Liz asks us to begin breathing deeply.

  While we’re lying and breathing, Liz starts talking about God. At least I think she’s talking about God, but it’s hard to tell at first because she keeps calling God “Source” and “Spirit.” She tells us we can call God whatever we want, but she chooses Source because God is where we came from, and Spirit because it means breath, and God is always as close as our breath. She says that even though we’re broken off from our source, we yearn to return—and we can return, simply by breathing. Liz laughs and says, “There are many institutions that don’t want you to know that all you have to do to be with God is breathe, because then everybody’d quit jumping through their hoops. Breathing is free, you know. Knowing is important. You have to be still to know.”

  I open one eye to peek at the others. Are we allowed to talk like this? I feel thrilled and nervous, like we’re in the back room of a high school party and somebody just pulled out the weed. Like we’re holed up printing our own money instead of waiting in line at the bank. I look over at the door and half expect a cop or minister to bust in and break up our little Underground Ragamuffin God Group before we have time to plan a coup. I remember what the God Rep said to me about my separation: Make sure you stay inside God’s umbrella of protection, Glennon. I am certain that this room is outside her umbrella. So why do I feel so tingly and alive?

  You can call God whatever you want … can you really? This is not what I’ve been taught. I’ve been taught that I must call God a certain name or He will burn me forever. But Liz’s idea is making me consider that Chase calls me Mom, Tish calls me Mommy, and Amma calls me Mama. I’ve never wanted to burn them about it. I knew they were each talking to me. It seems logical to assume that the creator of the universe might be at least as mature as I am about this name issue.

  I tune back into Liz’s voice and she says, “Okay, now drop your breath. Start to breathe from your belly.” She puts her hand on her stomach and says, “Watch your hand rise and fall with your breath.” I try, but I can’t do it. My chest is still rising while my stomach stays still. I am starting to get wheezy and panicky. Liz hears me struggling and sits down next to me. She places her hand on top of mine and says, “Down here, not from your chest. Go deeper. When we breathe from our chest, we live too high and we feel ungrounded. Go deep. Breathe low and live down here.” I try again. Liz stays by my side with her hand on my belly for so long that I start to feel ashamed. I want to quit but I tell myself, Be still. Stay on your mat. Follow her directions. Do not run out of here. Eventually, I feel a shift. I’m in my belly now. I hear Liz say, “Well done.”

  What happens next lasts for one moment and forever. I feel myself begin to float up and out of the room, into a night sky filled with stars. As I rise, my chest opens and expands until I lose all my boundaries and I can no longer tell where I end and the sky begins. The eyes I’m using to see are the eyes of the sky. I’m huge, endless, infinite. For the first time in my life, I feel the utter absence of fear. I am completely comfortable. I am at peace. And I understand that I am in the middle of a reunion with God. This is a returning of my soul to its source. My soul’s source is God, and God is love. I am, right at this moment, in perfect love with God and there is no fear in perfect love. Is this what they mean by eternity? It must be. This is the end. The end is the beginning. A returning to perfect love. Reunion for the soul. Why had I been taught to be afraid of God if In God is the one place in which fear does not exist? I feel in awe of this God, this love—I am awed but not afraid. Fear is not possible here. Fear and God together will never make sense to me again. I am loved and have always been loved and will always, always be loved. I have never been separated from this love, I have only convinced myself I was. I think of the woman who warned me not to step outside of God’s protection and I want to go back and reassure her, “Sister, who needs an umbrella when you are the whole sky?”

  All the way from the sky, I hear Liz ask us to slow our breathing and to land. I shift my breathing back to my chest and feel myself return to my body, like my soul is slipping back into its sleeping bag. I sit up slowly and look at the clock. An hour and a half has passed, which makes no sense at all. I notice that everyone is smiling shyly at each other. We started as strangers but we feel close now, like we’ve been on a strange, unsanctioned trip together. Liz asks if anyone wants to share about her experience. It’s quiet until the woman beside me starts crying. She says, “I’m a pastor. I’ve been praying for twenty years and meditating for ten, trying to experience God. But I’ve never … I can’t describe it. It was like … I am forgiven. I am beautiful and loved. I’ve been trying so hard to be better, different. But I am perfectly loved. Just as I am. I just … I never understood until now.” I look at her and feel relieved. I haven’t imagined this. She’d been the sky, too. I nod in solidarity with her and reach over to touch her arm. She puts her hand over mine to keep it there. I think of my dog, Theo, and how I need his weight on my legs each night like an anchor. I wonder if we need to be touched to come back to our bodies, to prove to ourselves that we exist, that we’re real, that we’ve landed.

  Just as I am, she’d said. I’m loved just as I am. She sounded so surprised. Me, too. It strikes me that it’s always religious people who are most surprised by grace. Those hoops we become so exhausted from jumping through? We created them. We forget that our maker made us human, and so it’s okay—maybe exactly right—to be human. We are ashamed of the design of the one we claim to worship. So we sweep up our mess and hide our doubts, contradictions, anger, and fear before showing ourselves to God, which is like putting on a fancy dress and makeup to prepare for an X-ray. I think about how the people who seem closest to God are often not dressed up and sitting in pews, but dressed down and sitting in folding chairs in recovery meetings. They have refused to cover themselves up any longer. They are the ones who are no longer pretending. They are the ones who know. Pain led them to their rock bottom, and rock bottom is the beginning of any honest life, any spiritual journey. These are the ones who know that faith is standing naked before your maker and asking what Craig asked me in the therapist’s office that day: I just need to know if you can really know me and still love me. God’s yes to us is free and final. Our yeses to each other are harder to
come by.

  I am not God, and yet Craig asked me that question. Since he’d asked me, I am the only one who can answer him. How will I answer? I think, Is perfect love true or isn’t it? It seems to be a yes or no question. I wonder if Craig is not so much asking “Can you forgive me, Glennon?” as much as he’s wondering, Can God forgive me, Glennon? Maybe before he needs to know if I can love him, he needs to know if he is worthy of love. I remember sitting on my parents’ couch and wondering if I was worthy of love. I remember entering that little church and wondering if I was worthy of love. I remember. And I remember that Mary and my parents had answered me: Yes. Then the Gulf of Mexico had answered me: Yes. Tonight the sky had answered me yet again: Yes, Yes, Yes. In the face of that sky, the only true answer is: Yes. The truth is grace and grace makes no exceptions. I am not what I’ve done. And if I claim that as true, then I must also claim as true that Craig is not what he has done. I will need to say to him, You are not what you’ve done. You are loved and have always been loved and will always be loved. And not only are you loved, but you are love. I don’t know if I’ll stay, I don’t know if I’ll trust you again, but I can tell you the truth when you’ve forgotten. I can be love’s impartial witness for you. Love is what you’re made of and grace is free for all. Grace and worthiness are yours for the taking.

  Grace makes no disclaimer. It’s true for all or none. The price of grace for me is grace for Craig. But as soon as I consider grace for Craig, images start filling my mind like I’m a piggy bank and someone is making deposits. The deposits are images of women’s faces, symbols of those Craig has slept with over the years. So, love seems to be asking, If grace is true for you, and if it’s true for Craig, is it true for them, too? And that’s when I understand that grace is a beautiful, terrible thing. That the price of love is high indeed. That for me, the price is this: I must stop pretending that I am any different from Craig and those women. My unforgiveness is just another easy button. We aren’t different. We are exactly the same. We are individual pieces of a scattered puzzle and we are just a little lost down here. We are all desperate for reunion and we are trying to find it in all the wrong places. We use bodies and drugs and food to try to end our loneliness, because we don’t understand that we’re lonely down here because we are supposed to be lonely. Because we’re in pieces. To be human is to be incomplete and constantly yearning for reunion. Some reunions just require a long, kind patience.