Soaking in TRUTH...

I am allowing these words to pour over me...

to change me...

to bring peace and rest to my heart...

and to remind me of His love.

Even in a broken, shattered world.

Remind me of your truth, Lord. Capture my heart once again.

The Grief Onion: Getting real

I hugged him tight in a mummy-hold, speaking the words over and over: "It's okay. It's okay. All done! No more hurts." Who knows if any of my meant-to-be-reassuring words actually made it into his head and heart, between my {very} broken Spanish and his incredibly limited English. I do know that he looked up into my eyes with crocodile tears running down his cheeks. As my school clinical day came to an end, I could almost read his thoughts. It's okay? It's NOT okay! It's all done? How do I KNOW it's all done, when you just scooped me up in your lap like we were gonna be the best of friends, then stabbed my finger with a needle? THAT'S not okay!

***What I'm about to share is not meant to elicit pity or even words of advice. I share it to be transparent in a grief journey that is long, rocky, and layered. I share it to encourage and walk alongside those also experiencing grief over the loss of a loved one, whether that loss is recent or years ago.***

I feel like that little guy I wrapped tightly in my arms. I hear Jesus whispering into my broken and battered heart, "Trust me, child...I've got you. It's okay." Meanwhile, my heart screams back, "It's okay?!? It's NOT okay! You've got me?! Well, where were you THEN?" I realized recently that I have never fully allowed myself to be real with God about the pain and hurt I have experienced over losing my dad...Feelings I may even describe as anger and a corroding mistrust in Him. I know it's not healthy to stay in that place. I also know it is not healthy to bury those feelings without ever carrying them to the cross. I have to admit, both to myself AND to God, that I am ANGRY.

It's not FAIR that my little brother doesn't have his dad in the stands at his soccer games, cheering for him and yelling at the refs like all the other dads. It's not FAIR that all my friends will have their dads walk them down the aisle at their weddings, while my sisters and I will walk alone. It's not FAIR that my mom, by no choice of her own, has become a single parent. It's not FAIR that I rarely get through a day without thinking about death or cancer. It's not FAIR that I have forever imprinted memories of my daddy, my knight-in-shining-armor, gasping for breath and slowly losing control over all bodily functions in the last days of his life. It's not fair that my dreams were shattered in one day, with one phone call. It's not FAIR that I am doubly broken and hurt with every new relationship loss and change, simply because I am reminded, once again, that everything on this earth is temporary...especially relationships with the people I have allowed myself to love. It's not FAIR, and there is a part of me, deep inside, that wants to know how God could have thought this was a good plan.

In my opinion, grief is like an onion--layer upon layer must be peeled back and revealed. I'm on the "get-real-with-God" layer. {It's only taken me 2+ years to get there.} Just as I had to hold and rock and whisper comfort into that little boy's heart in order to earn back his trust, I am praying that, as I deal with this layer of the "grief onion," God simply holds me in His arms and reminds me of His forever and unconditional faithfulness. I'm ready to find a new level of wholeness in my relationship with Him as I learn to trust, once again, in His perfect sovereignty.

And for the person reading this who is feeling the same way--Wherever you may be, I am praying the same thing for you. Find healing at the foot of the cross...where Jesus invites us to dump ALL our baggage.

I'm in the desert...

source

...and it's hot here. Vast. Expansive. And waterless.

I'm thirsty, and I have a water bottle sitting right next to me...full. But I can't open it. I'm too tired; my brain is too fuzzy to understand how to twist, twist, twist the cap until it slides off.

So I just sit, waiting for the desert to go away.
******
Do you ever feel that way? Like you are in a spiritual desert, like the water you need so desperately is sitting right at your fingertips, but you physically and emotionally CANNOT bring it to your lips? I do.

I've learned that the desert is a season {often a long one}, and that God will sometimes lead us there Himself. Because it's only when I'm thirsty, tired, delirious, and at the end of myself that I will start crying. I'll hand Him the water bottle and let Him open it. After resisting for so long, I'll finally let Him scoop me up and cradle me in His arms. And for once, I will be His little girl, not the I've-got-this-thank-you Queen.

We don't like to admit when we are out of water.

But I am.

I'm weary from a long season of pain and heartache that I am just beginning to crawl out of. With the change of color on the trees all around me, and with the gloriously healing changes going on right now in my life, I am reminded on a daily basis that my God makes all things new. Tonight, as I fall limp into His arms, as I guzzle down the crisp water He offers, I will choose rest.

“Therefore I am now going to allure her; I will lead her into the wilderness and speak tenderly to her. There I will give her back her vineyards, and will make the Valley of Achor a door of hope. There she will respond as in the days of her youth, as in the day she came up out of Egypt" (Hosea 2:14-15).