I am still breathing.
Somehow you can still breathe after your heart has been broken. Doesn’t really seem fair.
There have been times I would have done anything not to feel–not to breathe.
Doesn’t seem fair sometimes that you have to keep going.
That life just keeps going, and that you’re expected to keep going along with it.
Grief is weird.
I think I’ve gone through all the stages…several times. Out of order. At random.
I am careful not to think I’ve finally gotten through it. It seems whenever I think I’m out of the woods, there always seems to be a surprise wave of ache, anger, nausea, or depression that knocks me over. I wept in my car for a solid 20 minutes the other night.
But somehow I keep breathing. And life keeps on going. Keeps moving. .
It doesn’t wait for you to be okay again.
I think a part of grief is the false belief that you will never be okay again–that this pain couldn’t possibly ever fully go away. In this sense, grief is a lot like fear. I am afraid this will never stop hurting. That I will always live in a perpetual state of heartache. That I won’t ever get through this. My struggle with worth has been magnified intensely from this–it all plays over and over in my brain like a broken record. I want nothing more than to break the record of the past six months into a million pieces.
Fear is unbelief. I am battling unbelief. I am battling believing God can really heal my heart. I am struggling to believe that God truly has my best interest in mind. I am fighting to believe that God loves me–for how could this be love? Nothing about this feels like love. It feels like hatred.
I wish this grief had a shorter timeline for me. But I have not been allotted that mercy. And I wish I had more control over it. But the Lord tells me to trust in His control, humbly relinquishing mine.
And part of me wishes that life didn’t keep on moving. And that I didn’t have to keep on breathing.
And a small part of me is thankful that life keeps on moving.
That I had to pack up and move to another city for student teaching. That my alarm goes off at 5:36AM (because…extra minute) and that I groan my way out of bed and into the shower. That I gather my things and drive to an elementary school. That I stand at the classroom door and say “Good morning” to tiny people with gigantic backpacks on. That I have to teach. That I have to make sure kids don’t die during recess. That I have to hold my eyelids open as I pour over lesson plans in a nearby Starbucks. That I collapse onto my bed at 9PM.
That I have to keep on going.
Some days have been unbearable. Some days I feel as though I’m counting down the seconds until they are over–pleading with God for a better tomorrow. But they are getting easier. A little. The permanent throbbing ache in my heart is easing up slightly. I am unapologetically not okay. And, honestly, I’m so tired of not being okay. I am so exhausted of being sad. I feel like I am walking around in a fog of sadness. Everything in my life is clouded by sadness. And I long for it to go away. But I am not walking around defeated either. At least, I’m trying not to. I have been deeply wounded, and I am not okay yet. But I will be. Maybe never fully. But I will be okay again one day.
And until that day I will keep moving.
I will keep breathing.
Even when I don’t want to.
Lately, I haven’t wanted to. There is little to no part of me that wants to keep breathing.
I don’t have any strength left to hold onto the Lord. But He is holding onto me. And He will see me through. For some reason, way beyond my understanding, this was for my good and for His glory. I rest in that. Otherwise I would lose my mind. I feel as though I already have.
I must remember the cross. When Jesus was on the cross, people were likely thinking (and saying) –what good could come of this? They had no idea that the greatest of all good was coming. Salvation. In the worst possible situation, God was working for our good and for His glory. These events have left me standing, looking down at all the shattered pieces of my heart and I have cried, “What good could come of this?” I don’t know what the Lord is doing, but neither did the people staring at Jesus on the cross. I am learning to trust in what I do not see.
I am learning to keep breathing.
I am learning to keep moving.
Learning to keep moving on.
Grace has carried me safe thus far.
And grace shall lead me home.