This little blog of mine, though often forgotten; though often full of fluff and fun and cute kid pictures and stories; though mostly light; has always been a sort of sanctuary for me. Whenever there has been a hard thing, this is the place where I turn when I can’t possibly pick up the phone or speak the details. When talking produces tears, but writing brings healing. Where friends and family can read and understand and offer their comfort.
I’ve written about plenty of hard things here before. I wrote about losing our precious JoJo. I wrote to process our decision to leave Miracle Ranch, and then the actual leaving. I wrote about preparing for our little girl to leave us for her forever home, and then again about the actual leaving.
But this. This time I come to this sanctuary and this blinking curser, and while my fingers hover over the keys I can’t tell the story. This time my heart is heavy with more grief than I’ve experienced in years, if not ever. And the words won’t come. The words can’t come. There are rules and there is timing.
And the cursor still blinks. And my heart still bleeds.
My friend Rachel is this very week grieving over her fourth miscarriage and has already written several blog posts as part of her process. My sister’s best friend lost a teenage son earlier this year and I have read the most honest and heart-wrenching facebook posts as she pours out her grief onto the page. And then there’s sweet dear Sasha (whom I love to say I knew *when*) who eloquently shares the deepest feelings of her heart without sharing the details of every situation.
And yet my cursor blinks. And my heart overflows through my eyes.
With every thing I feel I want to retreat. This is too much. This pain is too hard. I want to shut my doors and lock my windows and shut out the world. I want to protect my little family and my wounded heart from ever feeling this way again. I thought I knew the pain this calling would bring. I thought my heart was prepared for hurt. But then this.
Minute by minute I move from loneliness, to anger, to betrayal, to crushing grief. And sometimes I don’t know how I will ever get around this. This thing I can’t talk about, can’t write about.
Lately I’ve started snapping pictures of favorite lines from books when I don’t have a highlighter or notebook with me. So in between pictures of one darling little boy, I find this picture:
And now when I see it I want to cry out, “BS Mother Theresa. B *freaking* S.” (Yes, I’m still a good Christian girl.) There is no way I can love that much. Because I thought I was doing it, but there is definitely still hurt. So much hurt. I’m not sure there is enough love that can ever make this hurt go away.
I have this moment that happened over 10 years ago now, that is one of those touchstones in my life. A moment I will never forget; a moment that comes back in times like these. I was sitting in my friend and mentor’s car and the tears were pouring as I was lamenting a job I believed God had called me to but that was not turning out not at all like I had planned. And in fact, was full of pain and heartache.
And then she turned to me, and she held my hand, and she asked me if what I was saying was the truth. And since my head knew that God equips those he calls, I told her it wasn’t. And then she made me do it: she made me say it out loud. She told me to claim the Truth. So there in that car while I wasn’t feeling any of it, Truth was spoken from my lips. And my feelings eventually caught up. And there was a new day, and a new way to go on.
So today we do battle, this head and this heart of mine. My head, which knows and loves and is grateful for Truth, clashes with my heart, which is overwhelmed by feeling all the feelings. I hide in bed and I wail and then my head whispers. It whispers of Truth from the Word. It whispers Truth from my own life. It whispers Truth from the testimonies of others.
And there is a new day, and there is a new way to go on.
But here’s the thing about this battle of head and heart and powerful weapon of Truth. You well meaning Truth-tellers don’t help. Nope. Truth from your lips feels like condescension and platitudes. It feels like dismissal of these feelings of mine that are insanely overwhelming.
I don’t want your words.
Nope, I want your space. I want your time to listen. I want your dinner deliveries and flowers and hugs and offers to watch my children. I want your tissues and your tears shed in empathy.
That Truth you know, that you trust and believe, I don’t want to dismiss it. Because I do want it, I just want it without words. I want it in the silent prayers you whisper as you make me a casserole and hold my hand and offer a tissue. Those prayers you say, they sustain me. And someday…someday…when we can look back in victory, then you can share your words with me. Those ones you said so long ago when we wondered how we could possibly ever function again, let alone love again. And we will rejoice that the Truth found in our ever-loving, ever-forgiving, ever-redeeming God won out once again.
I KNOW we will rejoice. Today this Truth will win.
This is not at all where I wanted to go with this post, but this is where we have landed. So I hit publish and I hope and pray that someday I will be back to share the Truth I have been reminded of as I walk through this fire. And you and me, we will rejoice.