Sometimes I just want to cry but I don’t know how. The disciples asked Jesus to teach them to pray but God, sometimes I think they meant ‘teach us to weep’. Father, if you really love the mourners’ tears then do you hate me? And when the kingdom suffers do you embrace it? Like I long to hold my niece when she hurts herself? If you longed to gather Israel as a hen gathers her brood then I pray that one day I might feel the warmth of that embrace and fears would cease as tears began to flow.
Maybe it’s just the masochist in me but some days I long to cry. I don’t know how and I’m worried that all this digging at my heart is building callouses faster than feelings and soon I’ll have only the former and none of the latter. can you turn this heart to flesh after I’ve turned it to stone? And if so how can I learn to ask you for that gift of healing when I shun the feeling it would bring?
I am not comfortably numb. Nor could I ever be (oh God don’t let me be). I guess I’m just too much of a masochist to sacrifice the pain in order to do away with the pleasure.
But more than that I’m a hypocrite. For I seek whatever I can to keep my deck level and my seas smooth; all the while steering clear of any chance of adventure and dangerous waves that might overturn my foolish craft and drown me in an ocean of your love.
I’m terrified of the sea. I’m terrified of what it would mean to me; to find myself truly surrendering to your leading through stormy seas. I’d rather be pulled under by currents beyond my control then brave the turmoil of the surface and face the music for my failures. I wrecked that boat because I refused to trust you. I’ve been practicing my grip for years so that one day maybe I’ll let go and let you take hold of the wheel. You can navigate by placing stars in the sky but when it comes to piloting this ship I will do it myself. I will relish every reef that grinds me down, every enemy ship that torpedoes my hull and at the end of the day when I break down, I will blame you because you never did.
If I could cry it would be tears rather than rain running down my cheeks to mix with the salt water I’m drowning in.
Adrift. Alone. But flotsam with no jetsam to cling to because my life’s too valuable to be thrown overboard. I would if I could.
I send out this SOS and like lagan sink below the waves.