I rediscovered this journal entry from last month and I’d like to share it with you.
First, some context: The past several years have brought their fair share of difficulties my way. My parents divorced. I graduated from college and moved halfway across the country having next to no clue what I was doing. (It turned out to be an immense blessing, but that’s another post for another time.) I fought hard, ugly battles with crippling anxiety and chronic insomnia. I swallowed the bitter pill of my pride and sought help through professional counseling. I lived on my own for a year and discovered that while independence had its perks, a lot of the time it was just lonely as hell. I’ve had my heart broken on more than one occasion. I experienced a crisis of faith that devastated me and left me reeling. I’m still picking up the pieces even as I write this.
Those situations made me feel, more than anything, isolated. So if you’re here and reading this and you’re going through something that is dark and confusing and painful, I’d like to tell you that I don’t have a vast supply of answers or good advice. More importantly, I’d like to tell you that you are not alone, you won’t always be in that place, and you are loved. You are truly loved.
It’s a beautiful evening. Still, but living. The birds chirp and chatter. Voices of family members starting to slow down for the night sound through open windows and doors. Air is cool, and sun is setting into a buttery yellow against a pale blue sky. Colors of spring. It’s peaceful, and I close my eyes to bask in it, to let it embrace me.
These different sorrows and pains have met me and changed me in indescribable ways…I wonder how I’m sitting here, how I’m breathing, writing, thinking, feeling. I did not expect this to be the look of either mercy or grace. I am beginning to understand how very little I understand. I have seen something of my own frailty and unreliability, and in turn something of Your love, forgiveness, and faithfulness.
The light of this day is fading quickly. I know I will need to go soon. But I will draw out this small selah for as long as I can.
I wept today as I read through “A Grief Observed.” Lewis said it well, as he often does, that sorrow cannot be mapped. It is a process. Each day is different. We never know what landscape might be around the next bend in the road.
Tonight, I know You are here. It’s not that You left. There’s just been so much noise and force and chaos on my end. But You are not in the great wind or the flame or the quake. You are the small voice that comes after. I just had to quiet down enough to hear You.
The former things have passed away. Can we, can I, agree that they have served their purpose? That I don’t have to live in fear or in their shadows? So I can move forward a little more each day into a life that is not guaranteed to be easier or happier, but will be a life that is different. Not cyclical. Not bound in shackles.