Weeping Joy.

Ever felt like if someone asks how you are, you might spit out tiny shards of broken glass that were once a part of the whole of your fragile, now shattered heart.

Like if someone went into hug you, you’d heap yourself onto them, like on the lap of a father, and you’d heave and sob from a deeper ache that even you were aware of.

Ever climbed into the shower with the sole intent to weep – undisturbed.  Where the waters mixed with the salt down your face and you didn’t have to reach for the tissue or wipe away your leaky nose.

Ever felt so broken – again – and wonder why you’re back here – again – where the hurt feels as fresh as it did the very first time.

Ever wonder why brokenness always feels like heartache and every pulse feels like thumb pressure on a bruise – and in those moments on your knees you swear you’d give anything not to feel what you feel right now.

You’re angry because it hurts and you cry because there’s sorrow – and as your fists and tears find their expression, in a split second of God-strength you cry out to him…

HELP.

As my head meets my hands and tears flow through the cracks in my fingers – in a moment of stillness and clarity, I feel Him.

I feel His arms wrap around me, strong, tender, and steady – as my chest shakes from the weeping.

I feel Him on my deep breaths in, and when I exhale out, and in the midst of my hurt, I ask Him to take the pain and make it into something.

“Make it into something,” I mumble in a cry voice that can hardly be heard.  Because few things are more tragic than grieving in vain.

It hurts.  Nothing hurts like a broken heart.  There’s no bandage for the bleed, no ice pack for the swelling, no over the counter pain killer to take the edge off.

You have to live with it. Do life with it. The world still spins and responsibilities still call, all while this thing inside of you feels like it’s going through a war.

I have come for the weary.

The broken hearted.

The crushed in spirit.

I recite His words to keep me from plunging into despair.  And then I hear, faintly in the stillness, “I will turn your mourning into dancing…”

For only a heart that has experienced depth of sorrow, could experience such depth of joy.

God doesn’t kill pain, he uses it.  And though the mysteries of why I may never know, I have to trust it – trust Him – or else I’ll fall into the blackness of sorrow.

In the middle of my weeping, I’m not always comforted by “there’s a purpose to this,” because sometimes only a Father’s arms can do that – but I am reminded, in the quietness after my emotional storm, that He promises to make this good.  To make it better. To use it – for me, for Him, for others.

And the reasons as to why or how are left as unanswered questions for a God whose ways are higher and wiser than mine.

I’m not saying I always like it – that he has chosen to use pain in this way – but I trust that He’s good, even when it feels horrible – and that He’ll take my shattered heart, my swollen eyes, and my shaking chest, and He’ll turn it into something beautiful… in time.

So once again, I give Him my heart – all the tangled messes of it.  And I ask Him to make do with what He can.  To set right what’s gone off course, to mend what’s cracked, to fill what feels devastatingly empty.

And so I climb into bed at night, remembering what His word tells me “the Lord is close to the brokenhearted and rescues those who are crushed in spirit,” I await, in anticipation and trust, for His rescuing.

As a final tear rolls down my cheek and onto my pillow, “weeping may endure for a night, but joy comes in the morning,” I look forward to the sunrise of His joy, for I know that my weeping has a purpose – that it’s beyond meaningful – and He will see to it that this, and everything else that comes my way, will end in His perfect hands that maneuver all things for the good of my heart.  Joy.  That’s called joy.