Feeling so overwhelmed with the barrage of feelings that I haven’t had time to feel.
Missing the precious moments of closeness with friends I barely know any more. Remember when we used to all live in McMillan at school? And I wandered down the hall with fresh cookies. And you wandered past my door and shouted my name. And we met together for homework. And we all spoke the common language of a shared story. And now we are so far apart. The many friendships become few. I miss those days. I miss those moments. I miss you…and you…and you…
Feeling terror at the moments I am in. My friends are married, married, married, I am married. Now babies are coming, tumbling out into our worlds, our lives, this broken planet. He and I even talk about making some babies and starting a family of our own, but then I panic, so afraid of so many things. I am not grown up enough to be married, to have chosen a partner for life, to create new lives.
Feeling tremendous responsibility and burden at a glimpse of our financial picture and wishing I would win the lottery.
Feeling the burden of failed relationships, pain in memories, things said, done, that shouldn’t have been said, done.
Feeling sadness at babies born so very small or already with broken little bodies. How does this happen? Afraid for my own babies someday, for my neices and nephews. Silently begging, screaming, let them be ok, be whole.
Crushed by a sense of directionlessness. By this class that weighs down ceaselessly.
Longing, longing, longing for Jesus, for hope, for everything to be made new, for a long, long table with laughter and friends and stories and food and sharing, where I can hold their babies and sing and get up and dance and never leave. Longing for undiminished intimacy.
Tears come. And it’s the middle of the night again. And my heart cries and whimpers for some kind of sign, some kind of hope. And He just gives me himself. Hold onto me, darling. Oh my God, I am so tired, so empty, so worn and worried. What if it all isn’t alright in the end? What if my mistakes are too many, too much? And I won’t ever know until I live it. Except I kind of know already. Maybe I’m just afraid to hope. To really lean into Him.
Hold onto me, darling.
And I’m going to just go ahead and publish this, which is crazy, because it feels unfinished and raw and messy. But that is just the way of it.
I cannot wait to sit at that long table.