But God…

Grief has a way of pulling you into the darkest of shadows you didn’t know existed.
Even on the clearest of days, it felt like a storm was hovering. 

The familiar routines of my faith… talking with Jesus, daily devotionals, and even coporate worship on Sunday mornings suddenly felt like I was trying to climb a mountain. 

I had been in that place before.  I’ve known that dark valley, and maybe I’m still somewhere in there, but I’m starting to climb out again.

I started pulling away from people, especially the ones who loved me most. Friends reached out, checked in, sent messages that I sometimes didn’t even open. I knew they cared.  I knew they were trying to help, but I didn’t have the energy to respond, and deep down, I think I didn’t want to be reached.  Their words might have reminded me of the truth I wasn’t ready to face, so just I kept my distance. 

I got really good at faking it. I knew the right things to say, the phrases that made it sound like I was healing, or even just diverting the conversation back to them.  Honestly, I should’ve won an award for how well I played the part.  I acted like I cared when others shared their struggles, and I did care, but inside, I was silently screaming, “I don’t have the strength for this.”  I was carrying so much heaviness of my own, I couldn’t handle anyone else’s problems. 

I’d leave those conversations emotionally exhausted.  I would practically run away for a quiet cry or a silent scream, and then wipe my tears, take a deep breath, and paste that fake smile back on.  I didn’t feel like I was lying,  I felt like I was surviving.

But God…

Back in January, I talked about sharing burdens, and how God never meant for us to carry our pain alone, but the truth is, I stopped doing that too.  I stopped sharing the burden with people and with God.

Earlier this year, I wrote about how it feels when God feels silent.  That wasn’t just a post.  It was a cry from my soul.  I didn’t realize at the time how deeply I had allowed my grief to separate me from Him.  I wasn’t just waiting to hear His voice…I was avoiding it!

I stopped praying.
I stopped doing my devotions.
I even stopped listening to Christian music.  Anything that might crack open my heart and let the light in.  Somewhere in my mind, healing hurt more than staying in the dark.

But God…

He never went anywhere.  I thought He was silent, but He was speaking all along…

I just didn’t want to hear Him.

He whispered through a hot summer rain shower. He nudged through a friend’s text. He showed up in Sunday sermon when I wasn’t even really listening. Still, I blocked Him out. 

I plugged my ears like a child throwing a tantrum because if I let Him in, I’d have to feel it all.

But God…

In His mercy, He waited.  He let me sit in the silence that I chose.

When I started to take even the tiniest steps…opening my Bible again (even if it’s not on a daily basis yet), whispering prayers that don’t really have words, just tears, and listening to worship music that breaks me…

He met me there.

Not with shame.
Not with anger, but with open arms.

I’m still not “there,” wherever that is, but I’m not in the same place I was either.  I’m learning to let Him fill my mind again instead of shutting Him out.  I’m remembering how to reach for Him.  I’m seeing now that He was walking by my side all along.

But God…

He is faithful, even when I am not.
He is patient, even when I resist.
He is healing me, even when I don’t feel whole. 

There are moments of joy now, even beneath the weight I still carry.  The sky that once felt endlessly gray is starting to show color again.

So if you’re in that place too… feeling numb and avoiding the very things that could bring life back into your soul, I get it.

But God…

He’s not done with you…Or with me.

Romans 8:38-39 NIV

For I am convinced that neither death nor life, neither angels nor demons, neither the present nor the future, nor any powers, neither height nor depth, nor anything else in all creation, will be able to separate us from the love of God that is in Christ Jesus our Lord.