I’m running. Running, and I can’t stop. My body is screaming but my heart won’t let me stop. I can’t breathe. Can’t catch a single breath. Heart racing. Sweat running down my brow. If I stop then I’ll feel it. The weight in my chest. The shortness of my breath. I’ll feel it all. It will catch me. It will bury me. The weight of this thing. It’s coming and I know it. But I don’t want to face it. I just want to run. There is no where to go and no matter how hard I push it’s coming for me. I try to breathe, but only tears flow.
The day is coming and they will be gone. My babies. Pieces of my souls floating out where I can not touch them. I cannot hold them. I cannot help them. But I still feel them. The ache is deep. Everyone around counting their few remaining summers and my number is none.
It comes every year, this hard thing of mine. I know it’s coming and no matter how hard or far I run, I can’t escape it. And it sends me to me knees every time. Maybe you have a hard thing too. A hard thing that keeps coming. Maybe your hard thing is like mine or maybe it’s an everyday sort of hard thing. Maybe it’s big or maybe it’s small. Maybe it’s your job. Maybe it’s a difficult child. Maybe it’s facing that medical treatment again and again. Facing the same hard thing over and over makes you weary. I know. I feel it too.
This thing, it makes me feel a mess. Broken. Like I’ll never be whole. Like the rest of the world somehow has it all figured out and I’m sinking. Sinking, while they carry on.
But the truth is that isn’t truth. We all have our broken. You have yours and I have mine. Our cracks and scars don’t look the same. We weren’t cut the same way. In the same places. To the same depths. My pain may lie to me and tell me some one else could have done this better. Someone else wouldn’t be struggling. But someone else is bandaging their own, different broken parts, in their own, different way.
And redemption, it’s messy, it’s painful. It’s a process, not a moment. And the beauty, it’s right there, in the middle of that mess, not just after. It’s in the way a perfect God can love completely, perfectly, right there, in the middle of that mess. He says he loves us before the healing, before we’ve figured it all out, while we are still struggling, not just after. It’s okay that this is hard. It’s okay that I’m still struggling. It’s okay that I haven’t mastered this hard thing yet, because he loves me anyway and he meets me exactly here.
So instead of running I’m going to stop. Let the tears flow free. Let the water carry me. Because the one who moves the waves can move my heart and soul. I’m going to let the guilt wash away, the shame be swept out to sea.
It’s okay to be broken. It’s okay to struggle. Because the truth is some things just hurt. I’m learning to embrace the rolling waves of grief and let them wash the love of God right over me, filling in cracks, the spaces, the scars. That salty water stings. But it cleanses. It heals. And I’m going to let it heal me again and again. No matter how many times it takes. Let it heal you too. Because the truth is he loves you. All the way. Right now. Right here. So completely, just as you are. Especially, in the middle of your broken.
“And may you have the power to understand, as all God’s people should, how wide, how long, how high, and how deep his love is. May you experience the love of Christ, though it is too great to understand fully. Then you will be made complete with all the fullness of life and power that comes from God.”
“But God showed his great love for us by sending Christ to die for us while we were still sinners.”
“And I am convinced that nothing can ever separate us from God’s love. Neither death nor life, neither angels nor demons, neither our fears for today nor our worries about tomorrow—not even the powers of hell can separate us from God’s love.”