Effing is supposed to be good for you. I'm allergic to effing.

Come close.  As uncomfortable as I am with intimacy of this sort, come closer.  No, closer still.  I have a secret.  The secret is that I am allergic to effing.  Yes, effing.  Effing has always made me uncomfortable.  My eyes and nose become red, itchy, and runny.  Effing makes me feel weak, especially if I’m looking up from the bottom.  Too many bad memories of us replay in my mind when effing.  And, being a Christian doesn’t help because as the world knows, effing is sometimes an even dirtier word to us Christians.

Here’s the problem with me and effing.

When I ef, there are never any flowers extended to me for the undertaking.  There is never anyone asking for a little ef.  Bring me azaleas and call me Iggy, but I would prefer they bow down and beg for ef.  As a consequence, what I’ve learned is that you sometimes have to take effing into your own hands, turn the French manicure toward yourself, if you’re ever going to be satisfied.  Effing can be a lonely endeavor that way.  It’s a pain when you feel you’re left to do all the work yourself.  But to finally fly free, sometimes you have to take a finger and point it toward yourself.  Then dig deep and do the work.

What I’ve found is that too many of the wrong thoughts swim through my head during the emotional acrobatics of effing.  It becomes a competition where I entertain thoughts of the other person getting the better of me; in that, while I’m huffing, they’re puffing up.  Each subsequent favor performed, I imagine the other person laying back and snickering about my continued generosity—when they don’t deserve it.  Each shiny new gift of love, money, or time I share, I imagine them calling me a fool in their minds because they know the dirt they’ve done, and they know they don’t deserve so much as an easy breezy air kiss from me.

Sometimes during the heights of effing, I wonder whether I should stay or go.  I ponder whether I should curl my knee up and kick this person out of my life or if I should just back it up and take it.

"You want me to ef you?"

Recently, I received some disturbing news from a person I have had to ef over and over again.  It’s bad enough I dreamt I saw this person in a casket at the funeral I was attending.  So it’s not like I have not known for years that this relationship is a bloated carcass ready to pop.  Nevertheless, I keep showering, perfuming, and taking deep relaxing breaths only to dirty myself up trying to ef all over again.

To be truthful, the only time effing feels good to me is if I huff and puff and quickly flick the person out of my life like a cigarette butt.  Then I can exhale.  Feel at peace. 

"Ef you? Have you no shame?"

But I’m starting to wonder if I’m lacking maturity for only being able to ef someone if I know they will soon be at a safe distance out of arm’s reach.  If you have effed to the best of your ability, shouldn’t it be possible to still lay your head down on the pillow of relationships and rest inches away from the person in the same peace?

Hell.  And naww.

Because I hold grudges.  I don’t mean to.  I just do, which means when I ef I am seven times out of ten just stretching.  Going through the motions.

So why haven’t I said ‘ef it’ to effing?  Why do I keep showering, perfuming, and taking deep relaxing breaths only to dirty myself up trying to ef again?

Maybe it’s because I realize I am Peter asking Jesus, “Lord, how often shall my brother sin against me and I FORGIVE him?  Up to seven times?”  Then maybe it’s because I imagine Jesus whispering the same “dirty little words” in my ears as He did into Peter’s ears so long ago: “I do not say to you, up to seven times, but up to seventy times seven.”

7o x 7?  Hmmph, I guess that’s why.

Come closer.  Close enough for me to put my arms around you?  Yes, please.  See?  Intimacy is not so bad.

Now listen: When you know you’ve got some growing to do in the New Year (like I do), you can’t just pretend.  You can’t just stretch and moan and squirm and wallow in the pain of the dirt someone has done to you and forget the exercise (like I do).  Some relationships are worth squeezing all the life out of; others . . . feel free to flick.  But you’ve got to roll up your sleeve to the elbow and get in there—all the way in there—and do the work.  Keep effing—I mean, forgiving—it’s the only way to break free.

Wishing you all the best in the New Year! With love and kisses, Holliday Vann