In the silent moments
Is when I hear the most noise
And in the lonely moments
I feel so crowded out.
Where do you go
When everything seems lost?
Where do you go
When lost seems
Where you’re found?
And if there’s a light at
The end of this tunnel
I haven’t seen it yet.
But my weary eyes
And my bones
Are aching for some
And it’s happening again. I can feel it, but can’t control it. My eyes are brimming with overwhelming tears and my heart feels like a semi has just reversed and parked right over my chest. And the tension is at the base of my neck, stretching upward into my brain, I can’t catch my breath and everything seems too big and too small all at once. I’m sobbing into my bowl of Captain Crunch, at first the tears ebb and flow like a gentle tide, but now the waves are crashing in like tsunami tides.
And I’m underwater this month. I’m deep and dark, so everything that reaches me comes sopping and soaked with water itself. Everything seems twice as heavy because it comes with this weight of sadness, this weight of anxiety that is already all around me. Sometimes words just don’t get you there… don’t let you say the stuff from deep in your heart, stuff that no dictionary has a name for.
No, it’s not hard. It’s painful.
It reveals my insecurities. Reveals that as much as I’d like to believe I am independent. Being on my own scares the crap out of me. That there is this joy that comes from being surrounded by people who love you, a joy that comes with coming home and being able to sit down with someone and just talk, about anything, about nothing.
And right now I don’t have that. I wake up at six am alone. Get ready, alone. Go to class then to work and then come home, alone. Everything I do lately feels like it’s alone.
I mean there are people around me, in my classes and at work, and people who love me and care for me, but even then there are times when a person can feel completely alone in the crowds. And how do you explain to people this undefined sadness that seems to be hovering over you like an impending thunderstorm. How do you explain to them all the feelings you can’t even understand yourself, without them getting swept away in the high tide?
Making sense of things has never been my strong suit. I tend to overlook things or just be oblivious to the obvious. And I know that God is at work in this. I know, because what other hope do I have, but Him. And people keep telling me that everything will be okay and that I’m strong and that I’ll make it through. But honestly I feel anything but strong, and my floaties feel like they might have a hole in them, and my legs are tired from treading all this water.
And I think that I will inevitably drown in my sadness if all I do is wade in it. Jesus is with me. I have to keep reminding myself of that. I have to keep reminding myself that He is the breath in my lungs, He is the release in my chest, the peace in my mind. That He is the constant lifeboat, always anchored near me, when my floaties fail. And I’m not saying I’m happy, I’m saying that this undefined sadness is easier to swim out of, knowing that my life boat is always there with me.
I mean life is not simple when we have Jesus, but there is hope. And just because circumstance are ugly, doesn’t mean that there is no beauty in the midst. I mean He has blessed me beyond measure with a job, with education, with a group of kids I get to hang out with and love on. With wonderful friends who let me sob through my problems with them and eat their food and sleep on their couch and borrow their sweatshirts when I’m cold. God is teaching me lessons on being patient, on finding joy, on loving, on making mistakes, on being human.
And the waves aren’t easy to walk on.
I’ve failed repeatedly.
Done stupid things.
This journey is a hard one. And sometimes when I go back to an empty house, with nothing but clothes and an air mattress, I’m tempted to just let my head dip under the water and let go. But I hear His voice, reminding me that I am not alone, that I will never be alone. And sometimes I can feel it. That overwhelming sense of the world and its waves crashing down on me. And sometimes I just have to cry in the middle of work, or into my bowl of captain crunch. Sometimes life is sopping wet.
But I’m swimming toward the boat, and I can see Jesus holding up a big fluffy towel. And once I get there, I’m going to climb into that boat, wrap myself in that arms that hold that towel and continue on in this pilgrimage.
Because I must travel on, I must keep going. HE keeps me going.
So I will continue to try and cast all my anxiety on Him, because He cares for me… but for now, on this pilgrimage, I am traveling light with a heavy heart.
HIS and yours,