Eggshells Don't Dissolve in Water

You can't see through the hot bitter tears. You stray into oncoming traffic because you're lost in thought. The black ford behind you honks his horn. You jump to reality and kick yourself for getting lost. Again. The fry pies are burnt. It took an hour and a half longer than it should have and now you won't have time to make more caramel. Fall asleep in the breakroom. Awake with a jerk and now you're 5 minutes behind. The drive to church, clenching and unclenching fists. Determined to smile and connect with people. Because they want you. They miss you. And you miss them. Every where you go people want you. Love having you around. Miss you. But you never make it. You failed them again. No one knows what's going on and you can't tell them. All they know is that you're different and no one likes different. And honestly, you don't even know yourself. All you know is that you're tired. Completely and totally worn out. You've been fighting so long and so hard and how all you can do is go through motions, and sometimes not even that. You're not mad. You're not bitter. You're not even discontent. You're just tired. Bone tired. And your sword is so heavy. Hard things don't go away by ignoring them. 

You know me. I've always been okay. I've had my days, or weeks, but in the end I still have a smile and a hug for you. Just so you know, that part of me hasn't changed. I have a light at the end of this tunnel. But for the light to make sense, I need to describe the darkness. You guys know there has been various forms of abuse and harassments in the course of my 20 years in the world. And for years I refused to call it for what it was. Because if I did, it would mean dealing with it. And it was too painful and too raw and too scary. Now, years later, Jesus is taking me through the healing part. This is the season of life I call my time to mourn. I cry more than I laugh. The light in my eyes isn't bright. Social events and large groups of people are very difficult. Because this season of life is hard. You  can't dilute pain. 

2020 was going to be my year. I think most people just had a feeling something big was going to happen. I could feel it. I went to Australia, met so many incredible people, and went through some hard hard stuff, but it was manageable. I came home from Australia with high hopes and expectations of reentry and making peace with the world. Smirk. I hit every last brick wall in Perth County instead. Isn't that often how it goes? Having an idea of what "God's work" should look like, and instead basically getting thrown under a bus. 

Coming home from AU and getting back into a post-COVID world was impossible to prepare for. So it hit like wave after wave of grief. My counsellor told me I was grieving. Grieving the loss of safety and community. Grieving the loss of people and places. Of the me I had to leave behind. And you know, I've been told time and time again that I don't have to be anyone else here that I'm not other places. But I'd love to know how to breathe deep long breaths of toxic air without killing yourself eventually. Because of I could figure that out, then I could be the person I am when the air is pure and safe. I just haven't figured that out yet. 

But the above is just a small small portion of the bigger picture. My heart on my sleeve could also tell you of the light at the end of this tunnel. I could tell you how, for the first time, hope isn't just a foreign concept, too lofty for me to reach. I could tell you how I can finally pick myself up, look them in the eye, and not feel like I owe them anything. How I can sing of mercy and grace and love without feeling confused. Because I know what it is to be covered from the top of my head to the very bottom of my worst days in Love, prayer, support, and grace. Grace upon grace. How I run so often to into the only truly safe arms of Jesus and fall asleep there. 

Yes, most days are dark days. Most days I go through the motions of life and my head space in entirely filled with battles in my mind and utter exhaustion. Because things that took years to happen don't take months to disappear. 

 But what matters is that each and every time I hand Him my broken pieces. Each and every time I invite him into the middle of my hurt and anger and frustration. What matters most is Jesus. It's always Jesus. It doesn't matter what happens or doesn't happen, I know I can always come back to that fact. 

And in the process of becoming okay again I'm learning to trust the Healer more fully. I'm learning to trust His process even if it seems way out of whack. I'm learning how even on the worst days there is Grace and mercy and truth and people who care to see you through. I'm learning how, instead of giving way to tears, to simply ask for strength. To count my blessings. To rest in the safety of His process. 

 I know I started rather heavily. I write life and that is where it's at. Eggshells don't dissolve in water. But time can turn them into powder that's easier to digest. And no, things that happen will never really disappear. But they won't be front and center anymore. Pain changes you. It makes you a softer, healthier, kinder person. Am I okay? Yes, yes I am. I can honestly and with a glad heart say that it is well with my soul. Don't worry about me. I'm rather introverted and I stay away from crowds. But it's a season of mourning. The dance will come in time. 

*paintings are not mine, credit goes to the artist.