Sometimes you're a soldier...sometimes, you're a wanderer.

I’m hesitant to post this. I feel like I’m standing in a doorway, trying to decide whether or not it’s “safe” to go out into the world, or whether I should bite my tongue like a good girl, and keep to myself. Maybe I should try to be holier, put my game face on, and “ponder things in my heart,” I don’t know. I don’t “bite my tongue” well, and though I wish I had the spiritual fortitude to be silent, I don’t…I don’t want to be “safe.” I want to be honest. There is a time and a place to ponder things in your heart, but in this case, I would venture to call that sulking.

This is not a “cry for help.” This is a promise I made to myself. A long time ago, I started to write, and though I’ve the sense to know not to fall in love with my first draft, I’ve always said I never had much appreciation for literary censorship. This is an art, and to censor things is like taking half of the colors away from a painter. You might get the picture, but it’s not going to be what truly reflects their heart. Editing and censoring are not the same thing—you edit, to produce an improved, cohesive final product. You censor, to destroy and turn something into what you think should be right. So I’m going to write this, and I’m going to be honest, because it’s all I can be. I write because God made me to. I write because sometimes, it’s the only way I can get things off of my chest and find the way to face another day.

Every year without her makes me hurt. Every year that passes is one more year that I’m closer to seeing her again. Every year that goes by, I see children deciding what they’d be for Halloween, and I die a little bit inside. It hurts. I’d have a four-year old…what would she dress as? What kind of birthday party would I be throwing? My three-year old niece had a princess party this month…that same day, I had to put a new arrangement on my daughter’s grave. How hard is that, do you think? I know, because I did it. I do everything I can to not dwell on those hurts, because I know full well that God gives healing and hope….He does.

But that’s a church answer.

Sometimes, the church answer does not make it all better.

Most of the time, I have such an appreciation for the incredible grace of God. If it wasn’t for Him, I’d be dead on so many occasions; I know Him—I trust Him. Please don’t preach at me, or worry about my salvation, because it’s sure. Jesus is my Friend, and no one knows my heart like He does. I feel like my Christian friends are sitting there, waiting with baited breath to give me a verse, or say an encouraging word, or do whatever we all want to do, when we see someone hurting. I appreciate that, I really do…I love every single person who has put an arm around me or sent me encouragement. I almost feel bad for saying this, but…

Just shut up and tell me you love me.

I feel like I need to sit here and make an excuse for my bad behavior—after all, shouldn’t I be running to the Word for encouragement? Shouldn’t I be on the phone, asking for prayer? Isn’t that what good little Christians do when the bottom drops out of their day? Does this make me rebellious, in a bad place, or God forbid, a backslider?!?!?!?

No. It makes me human.

I am broken, and even if it’s just for a few days (as opposed to a few weeks, which it normally is), I am constantly reminded that it’s okay to be broken.

It’s okay.

I don’t have to be told a solution—God does not frown on the broken heart. He loves it. He calls me to His side, in His way, in His time, and I can’t help but respond. Whether that’s with tears, with singing, or with all of the above, I can’t help but respond to the grace of God. That doesn’t mean that I run to His arms, and jump up, completely perfect. It means that I run to His arms, and He holds me to His heart…where I find that His heart is even more broken than mine.

He gets it. He gets me.

I am hurting. I feel like I did so well, keeping it together, hearing from Him, learning new things and being so strong, and then suddenly, yesterday, for whatever reason, I lost it. I actually drove home, and after uncharacteristically screaming at a fellow driver, I said out loud, that “I have completely lost my mind.” I tried to pray—I’d managed to make it through helping our patients—I tried to focus on what I know, on Who He is—I tried every method of coping with grief and changing my focus that I could think of—but I. Lost. It.

(Children in the background are singing "Ring Around the Rosy" as I write this...the windows are open because I love fall..."all...fall...down." Hmm.)

I tried to call my mother, who was in the middle of something. She handed the phone to my well-intentioned father, who said all of the wrong things. My sister, God bless her, is out of town and was texting me to hang on—she’s seen me like this before, and knows it can end badly—until she could get to a landline and talk me down from my ledge.

Aren’t I supposed to be a grown-up?

I crashed yesterday, just bottomed out. I feel guilty for my coping mechanism. I thought about calling a friend, but who wants to sit and listen to me cry incoherently for an hour? I felt like such a burden. I almost stopped by GHOP, but couldn’t remember the schedule, and didn’t want to be seen in the mess that I was. I went home, cried on the phone with Billie, and no, I didn’t run to the Word. I didn’t dissolve into prayer. I honestly didn’t want to talk to God last night, but I think that’s okay—He didn’t need me to talk to Him, for Him to know what was going on. I went home, and I crashed into a pile of blankets, which is where I stayed until I got up for work this morning.

I’d hoped joy would come in the morning, but it didn’t. Just me, looking at myself in the mirror, wondering where in the world I would find the strength to go to my office today. Should have been a big girl, called my boss, and told her I needed a Mental Health Day. Instead, I went into work, and I have no idea of what I did today. I spent 20 minutes on the phone with Blue Cross/Blue Shield, and have no clue what we talked about. I cried at my desk. I went in with no makeup on, and I’m pretty sure I forgot deodorant. I left work early, and thank God, my boss understood. I actually called my DENTIST to see if the consult I’d scheduled for my TMJ could be done earlier, just to give me an excuse to leave work early, because I was too chicken to tell my boss the fact that I simply could not handle today. My brain is not functioning, and I don’t know what to do.

I feel very lost right now, but I know that I’m not. When you see me again, I'll probably be fine, and act like none of this was ever written...this is for today. My feelings, and truth, are right now, two very separate things, and I know—I know—that I will pull it together and get my head on straight, shortly. I also know that I have to believe that it’s okay for me to cry right now.

It’s okay, for me to fall apart.

I’m not the one Who’s holding me together.

It’s okay for me to lose it.

It was never mine to begin with.

“Keeping it together” is merely maintaining the illusion that it’s all under my control… (thanks, Paige)...

It’s not.

I am going to burrow under my blankets again tonight, and I will stay there….and it will be fine. Joy really does come in the morning; anyone who guarantees that it’s the “next morning” is foolish.

I feel like I’m having to make excuses for my “bad” behavior, like I have to explain myself, but I don’t.

I’m not making excuses.

My daughter would have turned four years old on Saturday. She’s dead, and I’m here, and that realization simply put, sucks. I’m hurting. I know Jesus holds her in His arms, and most of the time, that’s all I need to know. For today, though, I will cry.

For today, I will lose it.
For today, I will mourn.
But
Joy
Comes
In The
Mourning.