Fiercely, Jessica

I’ve been thinking about bitterness lately.

Which is uncomfortable, because nobody really wants to spend too much time wondering if they’re bitter.

We want to be hurt.

Hurt sounds understandable.

Hurt means something happened to us.

Bitterness sounds like something has happened inside us.

And lately I’ve been trying to figure out where one ends and the other begins.

Because I know what hurt feels like.

I also know what it feels like to replay something that hurt. To remember another detail. To have something seemingly insignificant happen and feel a reaction that seems much bigger than the moment itself.

And then comes the second reaction.

The one where I immediately start correcting myself.

Let it go.

Give them grace.

Don’t make everything about you.

Maybe they didn’t mean it that way.

You need to forgive.

Don’t become bitter.

That last one scares me.

Because I don’t want to be bitter.

I don’t want to become someone who keeps a running ledger of every person who has disappointed me. I don’t want to collect offenses. I don’t want to secretly celebrate when someone who hurt me struggles. I don’t want yesterday’s wounds deciding how I love people tomorrow.

But I’m starting to wonder if, in my determination not to become bitter, I sometimes skip something important.

That hurt me.

Not they are terrible.

Not I was completely right.

Not I did everything perfectly.

Not even they meant to hurt me.

Just—

That hurt me.

And maybe I need to be able to say that before I decide what the hurt says about my heart.

When the Hurt Comes From Somewhere Safe

There are people we naturally hand the softer parts of ourselves to.

Not because we expect them to be perfect. At least I hope not.

But because of who they are to us.

There are relationships where we lower our guard because we believe we are safe there.

And when the wound comes from one of those places, it hits differently.

A stranger can misunderstand me.

An acquaintance can overlook me.

Someone on the internet can decide they don’t like me before they finish reading the paragraph.

Fine.

But there are people whose opinions, actions and affection carry more weight because I gave them more weight.

Sometimes the pain isn’t only about what happened.

Sometimes it’s about who I thought you were to me when it happened.

Some relationships come with an expectation of safety. Not perfection. Not an exemption from ever disappointing me. Just the belief that if anyone is going to handle this part of me carefully, surely it will be you.

And I know something about that kind of hurt.

Years ago, Cory apologized to me for something I hadn’t asked him to apologize for.

“I’m sorry.”

“For what?”

He told me he had realized that he simply didn’t know what it felt like not to feel loved by his mom.

He had always known his mom loved him. Unconditionally. It wasn’t something he had ever had to question.

What struck me most was that I had never told him I didn’t feel loved by mine.

I don’t think I had ever told anyone that. It wasn’t some big revelation I’d uncovered through many therapy sessions.

And I certainly hadn’t spent our marriage trying to convince Cory to feel about my mom the way that I did. That’s something I’ve always been pretty intentional about. My experience with someone is my experience. It doesn’t automatically become yours. Someone can hurt me deeply and have a completely different relationship with you. I can tell you what happened to me without needing you to arrive at the same conclusion I did.

So when Cory would sometimes watch me interact with my mom and encourage me to be more patient, I usually took his advice in stride.

Maybe I was being too harsh.

Maybe I was too short with her.

Maybe I needed to tolerate a little more.

Up until then, his experience with her had been different from mine.

Then we went through an incredibly difficult season involving my youngest brother living with us. And for the first time, Cory was close enough to some of those dynamics to experience them for himself.

I didn’t have to convince him.

I hadn’t even given him the conclusion.

He came to it on his own.

And what he saw wasn’t simply, Jessica was right and her mom was wrong.

He saw something much more personal:

I have been giving my wife advice from a kind of safety she has never experienced.

That’s what he was apologizing for.

I’ve thought about that conversation many times since.

Because we usually see the moment.

We rarely see everything the moment landed on.

We see someone get unusually quiet. We see someone pull away. We see anger that seems disproportionate. We see someone struggling to “let something go.” We see the reaction.

We don’t always see the history underneath it.

Sometimes what looks like an overreaction is a current hurt landing on an old bruise.

And sometimes I think even I forget about the bruise.

The Thoughts I Don’t Like Admitting

Here’s where this gets uncomfortable.

Because hurt doesn’t always produce particularly beautiful thoughts.

Sometimes I’m jealous.

Sometimes I feel overlooked.

Sometimes I watch someone else receive something I didn’t even realize I was missing until I see them getting it.

Sometimes someone gets celebrated and I immediately remember the time I wasn’t.

Sometimes I think:

That isn’t fair.

Where was that for me?

Why wasn’t I worth that?

And then I hear myself.

Yikes.

Is that bitterness?

Because I can clean this up for a blog post.

I can give you the emotionally mature version after I’ve processed it and prayed about it and rearranged the sentences until I sound very evolved.

But that’s not always what happens first.

Sometimes the first thought is ugly.

And for a long time, I think I believed spiritual maturity meant not having those thoughts.

Now I’m wondering if maturity might have more to do with what I do after I have them.

Maybe instead of immediately shaming myself for the thought, I can get curious about it.

Why did that hurt?

What am I grieving?

What am I afraid this says about me?

What did I wish someone had given me?

Because sometimes underneath:

Why are they getting that?

is something much more vulnerable:

I wish someone had done that for me.

Sometimes underneath:

Why wasn’t I mentioned?

is:

I need to know that what I gave mattered.

Sometimes underneath resentment is grief. Sometimes underneath anger is rejection. Sometimes underneath jealousy is loss.

And sometimes I accuse myself of wanting attention when what I’m actually grieving is acknowledgment.

Those aren’t the same thing.

Attention says:

Look at me.

Acknowledgment says:

I was here.
I gave something.
It mattered.

I don’t need you to make the whole story about me.

I just don’t want the story told like I wasn’t there.

Even writing that makes me uncomfortable.

Because shouldn’t I be above needing acknowledgment?

Shouldn’t doing something for the right reasons mean I don’t care whether anyone notices?

Especially when what I’m doing is supposed to be for God?

Maybe.

But I’ve noticed we don’t seem to have a problem with acknowledgment until the person who didn’t receive it admits that it hurt.

We thank people.
We celebrate people.
We tell people we appreciate what they’ve given.
We recognize sacrifice.

None of that inherently steals glory from God.

So maybe being hurt when I’m overlooked doesn’t automatically mean I did everything in hopes of being applauded.

Maybe I’m just human enough to want someone to say:

I saw what you gave.

Sometimes I Have Receipts

There is another uncomfortable part.

Sometimes I can prove why I’m hurt.

Sometimes I know I’m not imagining it.

I remember what happened. I remember what was said. I know what I gave. I know why something landed the way it did.

Sometimes I have receipts.

And there can be something validating about that, especially when I’ve spent so much time wondering whether I’m overreacting.

See? I didn’t imagine it.

That really happened.

I really did give that.

That really did hurt.

But eventually the receipts stop helping.

Because receipts can prove what happened.

They cannot prove why.

They can’t tell me what was in someone else’s heart.

They can’t prove what someone intended.

They can’t tell me whether an omission was deliberate.

They can’t tell me whether someone understood what their actions would cost me.

And if I’m not careful, I can keep returning to the evidence because I’m still trying to get an answer the evidence can never give me.

Worse, I can start using it as ammunition.

See?

See?

SEE?

Another reason I’m right.
Another reason they’re wrong.
Another reason I’m entitled to keep carrying this.

And that’s where this question gets harder.

Because sometimes bitterness doesn’t grow from an imaginary offense.

Sometimes it grows from a real one. Sometimes something actually was unfair. Sometimes someone really did overlook me. Sometimes I really did give something that wasn’t acknowledged. Sometimes the hurt really did come from somewhere I thought was safe.

Sometimes I can prove my case.

And I still have to decide what grows there.

The Root

In Hebrews we read:

“See to it that no one falls short of the grace of God and that no bitter root grows up to cause trouble and defile many.” — Hebrews 12:15 (NIV)

A root.

I keep coming back to that word.

Because Scripture doesn’t describe bitterness here as a passing thought.

It describes something that grows.

Something underneath.

Something that can eventually produce something else.

And suddenly the question I’m asking myself changes.

Maybe it isn’t:

Am I allowed to be hurt?

Maybe I don’t need to keep putting the wound on trial.

Maybe something hurt because it hurt.

And maybe the question isn’t even:

Was I right?

Because I can be right about what happened and still grow something unhealthy from it.

And something unhealthy growing from the wound doesn’t mean the wound wasn’t real.

I think I’ve confused those things before.

As though admitting resentment has started creeping in somehow means I have to surrender my right to say something hurt me in the first place.

But both things need attention.

The wound can need healing.
And the root can need pulling.

Maybe the better question is:

What is growing here?

Is this hurt making me suspicious of everyone?

Do I need someone else to fail so I can feel vindicated?

Do I keep reopening the case because I need another guilty verdict?

Am I using distance for wisdom or punishment?

Do I want healing?

Or do I want them to hurt enough to finally understand what they did to me?

That one is harder.

Because hurt wants acknowledgment.

It wants somebody to look at the wound and say:

I see it.

I know that cost you something.

You didn’t imagine it.

I’m sorry.

And sometimes we don’t get that.

Sometimes the person who hurt us never understands.

Sometimes they remember the story differently.

Sometimes they move on while we’re still trying to figure out why we’re bleeding.

Sometimes they never apologize.

And maybe that’s where legitimate hurt becomes particularly fertile soil for bitterness.

Because when I’m obviously wrong, correction is easier.

But when I have a reason?

When I have history?

When I have receipts?

When I can prove that something really happened?

Resentment can start feeling almost righteous.

Maybe It’s Both

I think this is the part I’ve been avoiding.

I’ve wanted to know whether I’m hurt or bitter.

As though I can dump everything I’m feeling onto a table and sort it into two neat piles.

Hurt over here.

Bitterness over there.

Keep one.

Repent of the other.

But people aren’t that tidy.

Maybe sometimes I’m genuinely hurt and resentment is beginning to grow around the edges of it.

Maybe I’m grieving and jealous.

Maybe something was unfair and I’m starting to keep score.

Maybe I have forgiven someone and there are still pieces of the wound I haven’t surrendered.

Maybe someone else’s behavior really was wrong and God still wants to deal with mine.

Both can be true.

And maybe that’s why this question has bothered me so much.

I don’t want to call my hurt bitterness just to make someone else’s behavior easier to excuse.

But I don’t want to call my bitterness hurt just to make my own heart easier to excuse, either.

I want enough grace to tell the truth about both.

Putting Down the Case

Maybe healing doesn’t require me to decide that nothing happened.

Maybe forgiveness isn’t rewriting the story until nobody did anything wrong.

Maybe I don’t have to throw away the receipts because they were inaccurate.

Maybe I can put them down because they’ve already told me what I needed to know.

I know what happened.

I know what I gave.

I know what it cost me.

I know that it hurt.

I don’t have to keep proving that it did.

And I don’t need another person’s confession before I’m allowed to heal.

I don’t need everybody to understand the backstory for the backstory to be true.

I don’t need to keep presenting evidence to an imaginary jury until somebody finally hands me a verdict that says:

Yes. You were allowed to hurt.

I was.

Now I have to decide what I do with it.

Maybe forgiveness and grief can sit at the same table for a while.

Maybe healing doesn’t mean I never feel the bruise again.

Maybe grace doesn’t require pretending the bruise isn’t there.

And maybe protecting myself from bitterness doesn’t mean condemning every angry, jealous, disappointed or ugly thought that crosses my mind.

Maybe it means noticing those thoughts.

Following them down.

Finding the wound underneath.

Bringing that to God.

And asking Him to help me tend the soil.

Because I can’t heal a wound I’m too ashamed to admit exists.

But I also don’t want to build a home inside it.

So maybe my prayer right now isn’t:

God, convince me I shouldn’t be hurt.

It isn’t even:

God, prove that I’m right.

Maybe it’s much simpler than that.

Fiercely, Jessica