Every now and then, after spending countless days in the same
routine I begin to think, "Oh, what's the use?"
I chat with friends and acquaintances who assure me that they care and "are
there for me." But what does that mean?
Pressing on and determined to find contentment, I continue my search.
I am thankful for the times I can be optimistic; that assurance is a gift from God.
My mind is so heavy with questions. At times, I drive myself into such a state of unrest…
My mind swims with possibilities, hopes, dreams.
It's getting heavy again. This burden on my heart is so heavy.
I fabricate answers that make momentary sense, believing that soon I will have the total picture.
Soon it will all come together for me.
I will discover why my life has been turned upside down.
The lesson will be rich and rewarding.
I'll bask in the knowledge that something good came out of my disappointment.
Some day.
After all, one can't hope to escape life's problems or narrowly escape disaster without feeling the sting. Can
one?
And then there is the matter of faith.
Oh yes, I have faith. I exercise my faith each time I ask for God's help.
He has provided the essentials and fulfilled that promise.
I believed He would meet my needs, and He did.
Dare I ask for more? Would it be whining to voice my heart's desires?
He knows our hearts. He reads our minds. There is nothing that He cannot see.
It's getting heavy again.
Long conversations serve as entertainment, sometimes even more.
I probe and discuss without giving away too much, trying to gain some insight through others' views.
They freely offer kindness trying to encourage me. Does it help? Perhaps, some.
Why does it feel so heavy? The weight of my future presses hard against my chest.
At times, I can physically feel it there. It hurts.
Trying to squelch tears that pool in the corners of my eyes, a feeling of loneliness washes over me.
The moment I sense it I swallow hard and straighten my shoulders in determination:
"I cannot give in to feelings of self pity."
I want to cry. I really wish I could have an entire day to just … cry.
It's so heavy.
Perhaps writing a list would help, listing the things I can change and turning the rest over to God.
Oh sure, I've done it many times before but maybe this time I'll be able to "let go".
With new hope and pen poised over paper, I think. Each thought attaches itself to another until they all flow together
in one great swirling mass - without beginning, without end, without answers.
The heaviness returns.
Day after day, night after night, week in and week out - I am alone.
I cannot afford the luxury of wallowing in my loneliness because others depend on me.
What would they think? I can hear their whispers, "What's wrong with her? Why is she crying?"
They need stability from me (their caring parent). I cannot cave in.
They can't know of my indecisiveness, my doubts, my pain.
I'm so weary of this role. But I continue to encourage them; laying to rest their fears.
Oh to be young and carry a lighter load.
I am reminded once more of the burden hanging around the corners of my life, waiting to jump into view.
Then … it is Sunday.
We get ready for church. In the quietness of that place, I can relax. I can pray
even though I continuously squelch more pools of tears. (What would people think?)
So I shift the hurt to a more respectable place where no one can see it. Only I know where it hides.
And when I glean enough encouragement to be able to stand tall and walk out of church with a smile on my face…
I can endure another week. Never quite healed; never sure that I'll be okay but since it is only me and not someone
less strong, it is enough.
A deep breath lessens the heaviness.
Sunday night, from my bed, my prayer is short and sincere:
"Thank you for getting me through another week."
The heaviness rests … for now.
