I don’t blog much anymore because I fear sounding like a broken record. Most often over the past thirteen long months, all my heart has wanted to say is “This is too hard! This isn’t fair! I give up!”
Because when life is falling apart around us, it’s far too easy to miss what is also being put together.
Last week on Twitter I read something that stopped me in my tracks and resonated so deeply that I’ve been unable to shake it. Beth Moore said
Life’s hard enough. Believer, if you get a moment’s levity, laugh for crying out loud. Laugh by faith like it’s all gonna be alright someday.
Can I tell y’all how much my aching heart needed that reminder? Almost as though I needed permission that even in the midst of uncertainty and a seemingly endless ache in the deepest depths of my heart, this girl can still “laugh by faith like it’s all gonna be alright someday”.
A few days after I read that tweet, I clicked a link that led me to this blog telling the story of another young woman’s worst year ever. After bravely sharing her story of unthinkable pain, she comes to this conclusion:
There’s no absolution in healing. There is never going to be a time when I’ll sit in the sun in July and not think about Harrison or Evelyn. Or smell that awful bar soap and not think of Harrison or Evelyn. Or hear Alexi Murdoch’s song Something Beautiful, or play with my nephew Frank, or make coffee or see a pregnancy test or do a thousand other things and not think of Harrison or Evelyn… And there shouldn’t be. To me, healing doesn’t mean I won’t hurt anymore. Healing means being able to breathe when I make a pot of coffee. Being able to play with my nephew, with a heart bursting with thankfulness for him.
“There’s no absolution in healing.”
There may never be a time I can listen to Keith Urban without tears or drive through Georgia without feeling nauseated. There may never be a morning when I don’t miss those text messages or that voice or those songs. There may never be a day when I’ll willingly delete those numbers from my cell phone or drive down the country road toward my Grandparents old house without feeling the unbearable weight of grief.
Yet “healing doesn’t mean I won’t hurt anymore. Healing means being able to breathe when I make a pot of coffee.”
Healing means continuing to pick up my Bible in the early mornings even though sweet text messages no longer accompany that time. Healing means drinking Starbucks coffee instead of Jittery Joes out of my Grandpa’s mug while listening to his favorite music and singing along instead of sobbing into my cup. It means waking up this morning and tripping over extra blankets stacked in the dining room and unloading a sink full of dishes, both proof that my home was filled with high school girls this weekend. Because yes, there may be wedding plans in the works in north Georgia, but eternity is being worked out in south Florida and if that isn’t a great reason for unquenchable joy I don’t know what is.
And so I’ll keep breathing when I make coffee, and though there may be tears there will also be laughter, because He is faithful and it’s all gonna be alright someday.