I haven’t written much.
I’d apologize, but I’m not sorry.
Sorry not sorry.
I’ve been sowing in tears. A lot of tears. In fact, I’ve said–more than once and only half joking–that I’ve gone from being a girl who never cried to being “The Girl Who Cries At Everything.”
I spent the majority of last weekend yelling at the top of my lungs at a God I was finally brave enough to be mad at. I drove across one of many bridges in my town, hysterical sobs finally leaking out of my body as I clung to my steering wheel. I turned into a Starbucks parking lot and pulled the emergency brake on my life.
I sat and sobbed for an hour, finally uncaring that half my office had picked that particular day to go to that particular Starbucks. It didn’t matter. I was over trying to keep it all together.
For once, the grief was just too much.
Can I just tell you what a relief it was to cry about it? There were events grieved last week that haven’t ever been grieved, not in the twenty years I’ve faced them.
Not one tear. Not one time. Not ever.
And to be honest, even in the middle of that cryfest, I didn’t really feel God there. I knew He was, but I didn’t actually feel Him. I screamed and sobbed and begged questions that are small to write here–questions like “why?”–but have such incredible, horrible implications when I think of their context.
But what happened in those hours of sobbing was a breaking off, not a breaking into.
This idea that I’m not allowed to grieve the things I’m grieving got broken off. Because what I’d done in not allowing myself to cry was the emotional equivalent of building a giant cement bunker sixty feet underground and labeling it “radioactive waste” and then acknowledging its existence as if I didn’t have the option of it every going away.
The grieved things are–honestly–radioactive waste that has seeped into every inch of who I am, trying to poison me, to give me incurable cancer. And if I kept ignoring this little voice that something could be different, if I kept listening to the enemy, maybe that would be true.
But something got broken off on Saturday and–Praise God–it hasn’t come back yet. It’s not going to define my future.
Because even though I didn’t feel Him, I know He was there, working and healing. Even when the feelings aren’t there I can hold onto what I know is true. That He is good. And He is faithful. And He is present.
He is “God near at hand”, not “God far away”.
He isn’t just going to break off the cement bunkers. He’s going to till up the soil it stood on and turn it into a garden. He’s doing it. And what I’ve sown in tears, I know I will reap in joy.
The harvest is going to be abundant, but for now, His goodness is showing through my broken pieces.