I lie here on my bed, the tears splashing down across my face and onto the rough, woolly knitted blanket that serves as an impromptu pillow. My heart doesn’t know whether it’s broken or dead. Sometimes, it really feels dead – numbed by all the suffering it has no answer for.
Other times the agony is so strong that I know my heart is far from dead or it wouldn’t hurt SO. MUCH. I almost wish my heart were dead so it would just stop hurting. Except I know what deadness of heart feels like, and it’s not much better.
I don’t have any answers. I don’t WANT any answers, but I wonder if that’s just because I don’t think I can have any that will satisfy.
Who has answers for all the things that are achingly, horribly, unfixably broken and awful and shattered about the world?
And the pain. You don’t know how many times I’ve thought this was the worst it could get. Surely it couldn’t hurt any more than it already did? Except it could. It did. It keeps on hurting more and more and more until I wonder how I can even stand it. But somehow, instead of exploding or fainting away or any of the other dramatic ways of getting out of a reality that bears closer resemblance to a nightmare with each passing week, I just keep living on. Struggling on. Hurting on. Crushed more and more irrevocably by the unthinkable miseries all around me – within me.
And today, it’s really just one little thing more that has me lying on my bed, almost gasping with sobs, crying out to God in the only words that will come,
“Father, when is the pain enough?”
If anyone has an answer – a REAL answer, not an answer they think they should believe, because that’s what Christian’s are “supposed” to think – please let me know, because I need an answer right now. (I know I just said I didn’t want answers. I don’t. But I need them anyway.)
I know this blog is supposed to be about finding light in the tunnel – hope in the darkness – and so now I should find some kind of happy ending to make everything better.
But I haven’t got a happy ending. I don’t have anything but the pain that keeps on getting sharper and sharper until I don’t know if I can stand it.
I don’t have anything but that anguished whisper, “Father! When is the pain ENOUGH?!”
Surely He hears and answers, though I keep sitting in my messy bedroom with the tears spilling down my face and the tissues overflowing my garbage can, and the unquenchable aching tearing apart the last fragments of my shattered heart.