It had been a long, dispiriting day. Week. Month.
That night, the air in my bedroom was close and still, and I suddenly felt claustrophobic. I grabbed my Book of Common Prayer and went out onto the patio, even though there’s no furniture out there. I had to get out of the house.
The window from the bathroom shone a square patch of light on the bare concrete, and I settled in it, content to read my Evening Prayer in its feeble light.
I felt like weeping, though, instead of praying.
For weeks, I had been journeying through old scars and wounds and hurts. It was the hurt of healing—blessed and needed, but hard. Terribly hard.
For a long time I had papered over old shame and bitterness and fear. For a long time I had felt ashamed of my past, of how I’d reacted to abuse. I had shied away from facing it.
Now, as a mature adult, I was learning compassion for myself. I was learning to feel righteous anger towards the people responsible. I was learning to not be afraid any more.
And I was very, very tired. I was grieved.
I’m at (in)courage today, talking about the unexpected explosion of light that happened right in the midst of my grief. Won’t you join me?
And if part of your grief is about the Bible, check out my new journal. Unquiet Time: A devotional for the rest of us, is available through Amazon and on Createspace. It’s full of aching questions and surprising quotes.