Now let me at the truth

I've heard this song before. My daughters danced to it beautifully in a recital. I didn't listen to the lyrics while I watched them dance so I didn't come to know this song until later. I am very thankful that their dance instructor chose it. I know the lyrics are firmly planted in my daughters' minds having listened to it hundreds of times learning the choreography. Their instructor is also a close friend and a rare find for me as a woman. She's a selfless encourager who I appreciate greatly. Thank you, dear friend.

I heard the lyrics for the first time at the gym. I was attempting a very scaled back version of a muscle up when I heard, "and I'll find strength in pain and I will change my ways." I told the gym owner I really like this song and asked who it was. He said, "you should like this song, it's Mumford and Sons." I've listened to it almost daily since then.

I considered naming the blog "Now let me at the truth" but RLB told me he preferred the "Sarah's Daughter" moniker I'd been using for the last couple of years on other blogs. (There's a tip there.)

For your listening pleasure:

"Now let me at the truth." - my new mantra. We use many different analogies to describe the turning points in our lives. There's the Tao Proverb: "When the student is ready the master appears." Or The Matrix's "Red Pill." Or Plato's "Allegory of the Cave."

However we describe it, those who've gone through an awakening know the intensity of the conviction, desire to share it, and the emotion for not having been aware previously. I sometimes wish I was of the sort that experienced the emotion as a calm, peaceful appreciation.  I'm not. When I learn the truth of something that's been hidden from me I respond with anger. I get angry especially for having been lied to. The anger swells up and gets directed internally. "What could I have done different to arrive at this truth earlier? And how can I make sure to not fall ignorant again?"

If you could see what I do when I am challenged you would understand what "now let me at the truth" looks like. Visualize someone frantically searching their home for a lost diamond ring. Tearing apart the couch cushions, pulling everything down from shelves, and leaving no item unturned. I don't just look something up or casually read a book, I devour information until I can achieve a balance again in my life.

I have no problem having been wrong, ignorant, or naive. By that I mean, I won't beat myself up for it very long. This doesn't always benefit the people around me. When RLB shows me where I've been wrong toward him, I like to say I'm sorry and be done. I am repentant of the mistakes I've made, but I, unfortunately, don't focus my energy on making sure everyone's feelings are okay. I focus on how to fix things so the mistake, error, or failing, isn't repeated.  This translates to my loved ones as crass and indelicate. If only they knew, the balance I am searching for is driven by my desire for harmony in our relationship. Because I love them, I must figure this thing out so I won't be the cause of imbalance again.

Once I know the truth and I know it is in harmony with God's Word, my relationship with RLB, and the stability of my immediate family, there is nothing that will separate me from it. It will have become immutable and I will sacrifice associations, if need be, to preserve it. I'm not one to agree to disagree. I hate the statement. I can be polite and use discretion but perhaps you should know this up front: if we disagree on something and I have already processed that topic through what I've described above, I actually believe you are wrong.

However, here's the deal. I love to be challenged by other people's well thought out truths. Not subjective feelings, "I just feel this therefore it must be right." No, that is a Siren's call. I look forward to assertions that are backed with logic, objectivity, and evidence. Even if I process your challenge and find it contradictory to my truth, I will respect you. I will appreciate the time you've taken to arrive at your conclusion knowing it was more than an impulse or what felt right.