Unconditional Love

Therapy today meant discussing self-worth, which was MISERABLE; I assume for everyone other than the three or four lucky bastards who had perfect childhoods.

Therapist: Do you think there's a spiritual element here?
Me: Yes. I was raised knowing that God loved me in spite of my sins, and—it was always in spite of. It's only been in the last couple years that I've learned that maybe God just straight up loves me. Maybe he delights in me.
Therapist: What would that be like?
Me: Comfort. Security. Peace...Too good to be true.

Our conversation moved on, but for the rest of the day I was stuck on this exchange.  Later it struck me why it felt so important--the last year or so has essentially been my attempts to prove that God's love is conditional.  For so long I've been defined (by others and by myself) as "the good girl," and it terrifies me to think that this reputation is what has earned God's love.  Does he only care about me when I'm trying not to sin, when I'm being modest, when I'm focusing on him, when I'm serving others?

So I stopped reading my Bible.  I started cussing.  I hit my snooze alarm until it was too late to go to church.  I ignored chapel requirements for DTS.  In my "good girl" way, I went bad.  I think I was railing against God, trying to prove to him that, "See!?  You don't love me now!"  I disobey authority, covet everything, hang onto jealousy, embrace bitterness, wallow in self-pity, and then I held my blackened and shattered heart up to God in defiance.  I wanted him to let me down.  I wanted him to be like everyone else, so that at least the world would make sense.  The rules would be clear--for me to experience love, I need to put on my happy shiny people face and DO STUFF.

But....that hasn't happened.  It's not like I've felt showered in God's love.  But during this year I've found friends who are in the muck with me, doubting and trying and flailing.  I've got this support system that is mysteriously okay with all of my pain because they know that the world is shitty and they're not interested in pretending it's not.  And it's through them and their sarcastic, enduring compassion that I think...okay.  Maybe God loves me.  Maybe I could never read the Bible for the rest of my life, and he would love me.  Maybe I could always act selfishly, and he would love me.  Maybe he looks down on me and fucking laughs and smiles fondly.  Maybe I'm his craftsmanship, and he made me good.  Maybe I'm broken, but he sees what I was, am, and will be, and he's just entirely delighted.