I heard it clearly, clear as day soft as a whisper. Write. Oh. How I longed to I mused to myself. To write again. But the time? I’m hardcore of getting my 8 hours of sleep as much as I can, and my days are filled. Still I couldn’t escape from the one word: write.
So here I am writing again. Journaling? Not as often as I liked. But I miss it to be honest. I’d write in the mornings hopes and dreams God has placed in me. Words He’s spoken, encouragements I remember, and musings from that morning’s thoughts. In the evenings much the same vain, except I’d write my sorrows, facts of the days, my worries, my concerns and discoveries of that day. My 1 rule for both times of journaling was in the mornings I couldn’t write the negatives- I do allow myself to allude to it on occasions- but I was to proclaim goodness and reflect on blessings. In the evenings I had every freedom to rant…then I had to end it speaking positive and let the negative go.
These days I confess I find it hard to see beauty and blessings depending on the day. But I know they are there. And I look for them…intentionally. It.is.hard. Yet- I’ve never not once NOT not find them. God is faithful to help me see them no matter how small.
When I lost my dog my heart hurt so much. I understood that death by grief was a real thing and felt as I could easily die from grief myself. Yet- I never wavered from often whispering gasping for breathe:
“Still…You…are…good. Still…I…will…praise…You”.
It was countless grief compounded into unexpected loss of hope against hope that made me hit ocean’s bottom of great sorrow. I begged God “Please. Just take me. Take me home.” I remembered clutching my hands desperate to feel His presence- waiting for His word. I didn’t ask for Him to come- I already knew He was there. He filled the room. “No.” He replied gently, but resolute. “It isn’t time for you to come home. ” I sobbed wanting the pain to erase. “Then take the pain I can hardly bear it.” “This pain is making you realize you are alive, how much love you have. Cry my daughter. Sit with grief awhile.”
…Sit with grief? Who in their right mind would sit with her? Yet, as I write I recall fondly a book: Hinds Feet in High Places. Where joy and sorrow walked hand in hand with the main character of the book. I don’t think I quite sat with Grief, I more threw myself into her arms allowing myself to grieve deaths and losses I should have long long ago done. By and by I learnt wisdom, because I refused to allow myself to move until I was healed enough. Joy was never far away in fact I clung almost fiercely to joy as I knew how as I did with grief. I sought laughter and plunged myself into seeing the beauty God created yet allowing myself to feel the intangible inexpressible feelings of deep loss. I didn’t fight to live because I had His word to remain at my post. I fought the feelings of sinking, fighting with hope to move beyond survival. “If I was going to live,” I thought to myself “Then I want to thrive in anyway I know how.”
Today, I wouldn’t say I’m thriving, but I’m not exactly just surviving. But I am blooming. I still sit with grief, but I am running more and more with joy. Waves of hardships keep coming seeming bigger than the last- but I still cling to words I uttered months ago.
“Still You are good. Still I will praise You.” No one can convince me otherwise. He is good. He is faithful. I’m convinced of it.