All this heaviness. This pain.
I'd like to pour it out. Open my hands and let it fall with boiling blame.
But I know it belongs here in my own hands.
This pain. Deep agonizing pain that comes from years of carrying this whole life. Years of holding it all together.
Years of driving myself into the ground pleading their happiness. With my own hands, my own prayers, fashioning a family, the family that I had dreamed of.
And when I suddenly realize I cannot, will not, create a life by myself. Then all of that pain is almost insignificant in comparison to the pain of knowing I have let my worth slip through the cracks. The light of me buried so deep there is only a flicker left.
I have poured out all I have. Held onto emptiness. And let it be enough.
And there is the scalding pain. I settled for the least.
Not in a person, but in the offering. The presence. The effort.
As though I was worth nothing more...
When my soul whispered, "this is not enough", I quieted it with work, with doing.
If I could just do enough. Make it easy enough. Then there would be joy.
The wrenching pain twists through my heart. The agony of neglect. Of not being seen.
The offering of all only to be left in silence. And letting it be enough.
This is the brokenness. The neglect of my own heart. The slow disappearing...
These shattered pieces, that as I struggle to pick them up dig their jagged edges into my hands reminding me of the choice to stifle my own heart.
To allow our own wounds, that is the greatest sorrow...
What unimaginable sacrifice then the offering of His body to be broken, crushed simply for the sake of Love. Giving His life with no offering in return...
"But He was pierced for our rebellion, crushed for our sins. He was beaten so we could be whole. He was whipped so we could be healed." Isaiah 53:5