Found By Compassion

By Anna Jones

I’ve never felt at home in my own soul.

My “church home” taught me I should hate the flesh I’ve been given in the hopes that enough hate for myself would produce enough love for others. The antithesis of love was selfishness, right? And apparently, selfishness equaled living the fullness of my humanity.

So, I disappeared.

Behind good works and good words, behind no words so I wouldn’t interfere with another’s story, behind “God’s will, not mine,” behind all the spiritual reasons I could come up with for running from my very self.

And I found a sort of home in the running.

Not a cozy home with candles lit and laughter ricocheting off soft-hued walls, but it was all I knew. A prison can seem like a home - for awhile at least - if you’ve never been on the outside.

I’ve known I should be at home within myself but I am an uninvited guest. Fear decided that the full expression of my being was a threat and so now I’m locked in a closet.

Sometimes I’ve found little resting places in the cradles of deep conversations; friendships sketching the barest makings of a map to my belonging.

Some days I’ve spilled vulnerability all over and it would make me want to retreat. Other times my tears poured, then have been held like sacred oil by my hearer. In their presence my shame has lifted, and I’ve come home to connection - with myself and with another soul.

Trauma locked me away from connection. I think compassion is the key to open the door.

One day as I felt like a stranger in my own skin, I sat in my counselor’s office. She observed,

“I feel like there’s some glass between us. Like I can see you but I can’t reach you. I’m trying to find you.”

The tears welled up in my eyes as I replied,

“I’m trying to find you too.”

As the tears flowed, I realized my deep desperation for connection. My therapist gently stated,

“I think I found you.”

In that connection, I suddenly felt like I belonged in my soul. My counselor had made compassionate space for the truth of my longing to come out, and in so doing, she created a little piece of home in that therapy room.

Home is being found in all our deepest hidden longings but accepted and validated. Home is tears pouring over sadness we can no longer keep inside, and instead of being reciprocated with a sermon, it’s received with sacred embraces and empathetic prayers.

Coming home to God requires that we connect with His compassion, yet we’ve pasted over Him with performance and checklists till His branches no longer are connected to the Vine from whence their life flows.

Meanwhile the Shepherd pursues the one sheep and says,

“I found you.”

And our homeless souls cry out in relief,

“I’ve been wanting to be found!”

May our hearts beat welcome for the emotionally homeless and may our words build sacred dwellings for the oppressed at heart. May we understand with gravity and awe that Home resides in our compassion, not our perfection, and that where shame grows, Home cannot.
May we be found and find, and in so doing, discover that in the fabric of our DNA as Imago Dei we are home-makers, home-dwellers, home-embodiers; the hands and feet of Home Himself.

Anna Jones

Anna writes because she’s been changed by the writings of others. Inspired by stories of faith and healing in the aftermath of spiritual trauma, she seeks to show through the written word the redeeming power of grace.

You can connect with Anna on Instagram at @annanicolejones95.