Shiny: to reflect light, to have an effervescence, to emit a joy that others could feel/see

This was one of my favorite qualities I didn’t know I had until I lost it. My shininess didn’t make me the center of attention, but it gave me an exuberance and effervescence for God and life. There was a lightness to my step. Life was exciting. There were so many possibilities. Anything could happen.

And that was the first to die when I got married. The harsh words and accusations flung at me clung to me like mud. I no longer felt light, loved, and shiny. I was heavy, dirty, insufficient – weighed down by the weight of my seeming failures and inconveniences. My world that was once big and awe-inspiring suddenly shrunk and my husband’s mood was at the center of it. I had to watch my every next move to make sure not to offend, not to set him off. Instead of finding my next adventure, I was tirelessly searching for an answer to deactivate the bomb inside of my husband. Is it the red wire or the blue? Is it not the wires? Maybe there’s a switch. Where would it be? Does his father have it? Or maybe it’s with that one pastor who hurt him? I already tried the one in our old church. He said that one probably would work, but it hasn’t made much of a difference.

Artists Sun Yuan and Peng Yu created a robot that would clean up liquid around it endlessly in a piece called “Can’t Help Myself”. They engineered the robot to sense liquid spilling out and to bring it back into a contained area. They also designed this to be an impossible, never ending endeavor. In the first clip there’s a simultaneous curiosity and pessimism about what the robot has to do. If anyone/anything can keep up with this challenge, surely a robot can? And then I saw this next clip of the piece, taken some time after its debut, and my heart sank. It was like a picture of me and my fruitless attempts at managing my husband’s anger and abuse. The liquid flung everywhere, staining the walls reflected not just my insides, but my life and family. The abuse cannot be contained. It touches everything and everyone around it.

After I separated from my husband, I grieved the loss of my shininess. I thought I was forever sullied. And then a couple of months ago, about 1.5 years after separation, I did a funny thing. I started to hum. I was walking around at work and heard my silence break as I hummed a worship song. I looked down at my feet and noticed that there was a fraction of airiness to my steps. No one hums in grief or mourning. You hum in an absentminded joy and easygoing stride.

And deep within me, I said to my shininess: Hello old friend. I thought you had died. But I guess you were just hiding.

It was the most unexpected reunion. Like seeing an old friend who had barely aged over the years. I was so relieved to know she hadn’t died. And while I was sad that she had to hide all these years, I also understood. She hid behind the striving, preserving parts of me that tried to keep everything together. And every step of boldness, empowerment, and truth I’ve taken to reclaim who I am, has been like a layer of mud peeled off of me.

“I am not responsible for my husband” led to “I don’t deserve to be abused”

“God doesn’t want me in this marriage” led to “I don’t have to stay”

“I am worthy as I am” led to “I don’t need to worry about people’s judgment”

“I am free” led to “I can shine”

The return of music in my life and home has been joyous and infectious. I went out and bought myself a guitar. I loved playing guitar and worshiping at home in my teens and twenties. I had a decade of silence and I plan to make up for it in this new decade. The first evening I played my guitar, my kids rushed in and began clapping to the music. And in my room, as they listened to me worship, a light shined.