Day 120

The sky was griseous.

It wasn’t meant to be a pretty day.

The overcast weather laid shadows across the land, seemingly following us on our way to the airport.

I didn’t want to cry.  I knew if I cried, they would cry, and I couldn’t bear to see their tears.

At the security point, I held each of them for a moment, almost as if I thought our hearts might not meet again.

And as I walked away, my heart began to shatter.  Stepping onto the escalator, the further the distance grew, the deeper my heart hurt.

I reached my gate and waited to be called to board.

It had, appropriately, begun to rain.  The pattern of wet texture stretched over acres of concrete.

It was almost whimsical.  The water danced on the grand stage and crashed against the tall walls of glass.

The sky cried so I wouldn’t have to.

I held myself, mostly because I thought I would crumble otherwise.  And I sat, alone, watching the emotions of my heart play out before me in slate blues and muted greys.

When I thought, "My foot slips," your steadfast love, O Lord, held me up.  When the cares of my heart are many, your consolations cheer my soul (Psalm 94:18-19).

Day 52

Warm milk.  Cinnamon.  A dollop of vanilla extract.  And two Nyquil tablets.

What a nightcap.

As I took each warm sip, I hummed over thought after thought, each pregnant with ripening anxiety.

Check engine light came on.  Funny sound.  Sip.

Trip home to California.  Pleasure and pain.  Sip.

Dogs need to go to the vet.  Sip.

Appointment with a dentist.  Possible cavity.  Sip.

Will be pushed to see orthodontist.  Teeth shifting.  Sip.

My budget versus my bills.  Not so David versus Goliath.  Sip.

Wanting a permanent roommate.  No options.  Sip.

Needing someone to live here while I go back to California.  Sip.

Single.  Single for a season or, more permanently, a reason.  Chug.

Each thought enough to drive me insane on its own, but squished together in my unsurrendering mind, I am at war.  At war with myself.

Where is my peace?

Warm milk.  Cinnamon.  A dollop of vanilla extract.  And two Nyquil tablets.

What a nightcap.

Good night.

Day 9

I’ll be honest.  I really don’t want to write tonight.  I would rather be in bed, under millions of blankets, hiding from the world.  But I’m not.  I can’t, I can't do that anymore.  And so here I sit, frustrated, half-thinking, half-staring-blankly at a blank screen, at a loss for words.

Last night was a difficult night, and today was a terrible day.  And I knew I would eventually hit this wall, which is why I made myself promise no matter how terrible things could get, I would write.  For better or worse, here I am.

“Darkness” I would assume is different for different people.  My own personal Hell is a labyrinth of lies telling me I’m alone, unworthy of love, and disgusting.  Satan looked at the playlists today, and decided to put these same thoughts on REPEAT all morning.  Thanks, DJ.  Good lookin’ out.  Jerk.

I sat in my car during my lunch break, praying for relief.  I had a journal in my lap, and sat quietly as if I were waiting for something miraculous to happen.  I watched golden leaves from the surrounding trees float through the sky.  And as silence cradled me, I began to cry.  The turntables spun, and I wrote:

I don’t want to do anything.  I don’t want to talk to anyone.  I want to slink away and hide.

This morning I barely had the strength to get out of bed.

The six-o-clock-in-the-morning darkness held me.

I couldn’t feel the truth in His love, but I heard the fears of my soul.

I may never be loved.  I may never be married.  I may never have children.  Who would want a whore?  Who could love me?  I am filthy and stained, undeserving of love.

I want to curl up, and un-exist.  I want to give up.  I don’t want to fight it anymore.

Tell me I’m not defined by this.  Tell me I’m Yours.  Tell me I’m safe in Your hands.  Tell me…I’m loved.  I’m special.  I’m worthwhile because I’m Your daughter.  Tell me it’s okay.

I paused.  My head slumped on the steering wheel.  I prayed none of my coworkers were watching the sad lump in the red Pontiac.  I tried to compose myself, and after a moment, I sat up, gathering my notebook.  Through tears, this is what was written next:

I redeemed you.  I died for you.  I knew what was to come in your life, and I died for it.  I redeemed every sin you could ever commit because I love you.  I love you.  You are so precious.  Remember the first verse Tabitha gave you, Isaiah 43:4.  You are mine.  If I didn’t love you I would’ve let you remain in filth.  But you are dressed in robes…clean, white, pure robes, because you are cleansed by my blood.  I died to save you.  I died to keep you.  I died so that you may live.  You are my precious child.  How could I let anything harm you?  Why would I let anything pass through my fingers that would hurt you?  I saved you.  You do not live in darkness anymore.  You are light.  Don’t listen to him.  Just as I know you, he knows you.  Just as I know your pain, he does, too.  He will stop at nothing to keep you from Me.  And I will stop at nothing to keep you.  And keep you I will.  I know your sorrow.  I also know your will.  You may or may not have a husband, I can’t tell you now.  But stop searching.  I stopped you.  I hurt you to prevent a greater eternal hurt.  Love Me now as a husband, for whether you have an earthly husband or not, you are My bride, my beautiful, redeemed love.  Cast your fears upon me.  How can I not protect you?  Have I not taken you over mountains and through valleys?  I am yours, you are Mine, and that is enough…forgive yourself…for I forgave you long before I made you, and I made you knowing you would fall.  All that you could ever want is yours—heart of mother though childless, beautiful though stained, and you are a wife already.  Come to Me, and rest.  Don’t run.  Fight for Me as I died for you.  I am love, and you are Mine.  Do I not cause the wind to blow and the leaves to change?  And just so, do you not think this is just a season of yours?  Though fall and winter come, there is a spring and a summer love.  If the trees gave up every winter, what would become of it?  Weather the winter, for I am with you.

Loving God isn’t easy.  But I tell you this as your loving sister, if it were easy, it would be worthless.

Day 8

I have no idea where the tears came from.

Wait, yes, I do.

They came from these layered personal tragedies, lost hope suffocating my courage, vicious lies from Satan.  Emptiness grew these tears, and Despair pushed them out from the very depths of my heart.  All I remember is emotionally collapsing in the cove, memories of this last year flashing through my mind like snapshots from a horror film.

They held me as I cried.  They were the only thing holding me up.

What an odd feeling for a soul to crumble, but rejoice at the same time.

I wept for the girl I was.  For her pain.  For everything she went through.  For all that she endured, both before coming Christ, and especially after.

I sobbed.  And I celebrated.  I rejoiced in having a faithful God.  A God who provides in His timing, in His way.

They held me up.

They held me.

I consider everything I’ve lost the greatest gift God could’ve ever given me.

A way to stop my deepest sin.  A sorrow to end my desire.  The absence of friends to appreciate His eventual gift.  Failed relationships to hinder my dependence.  Friendships to grow me, to guide me, to remind me of His love—His sweet, sweet love.

I am loved.  And He loves me.

And I am His, and He is mine.

I am emotionally exhausted.   But I'm under His light.

And so begins Week 2.