Refuge

My seven-year-old told me he thinks he has a cavity in his ear because it hurts when he pushes on it.

I think I have a cavity in my heart. It still hurts. The ache doesn't go away, though sometimes it goes missing for a few hours.

Today I furiously worked at getting the house back in order after a long weekend with hubby and children home.

After several hours of vacuuming and sorting loads of laundry, the dull ache became a loud roar and I realized that trying to create order around me was my method of coping . . . and avoiding.

There is no getting around grief. It must be gone through. Sometimes I putter around, and try to ignore it.

The result is, with no outlet, the pressure inside builds.

I see this operating in my children. They go to school, come home and do homework and play . . . and fight. And the fighting is more intense, less reasonable (if you can consider fighting over the PlayStation reasonable).

I think we all struggle with areas of pain that we either face head on or spend immense amounts of energy avoiding.

Kind of like that tooth that we worry and fuss over, but refuse to see the dentist about. The day-to-day dull ache seems less painful than an intense one hour visit.

So we limp along, not fully functioning, but not completely incapacitated. Not who we were designed to be.

The best way to face something we dread is with a friend. Reaching out when we are down puts us in a vulnerable position, but healing comes more quickly through the kindness of a friend.

Sometimes we don't know anyone who can be that safe for us. There is one Friend whose arms are always safe and loving, and who aches to wipe our tears.

I've found much comfort leaning into the refuge that is Jesus.

Casting Our Cares

My cares have gained weight this week. Pulling me down and draining me.

In previous weeks, the pain ebbed and flowed, but this week it washed in and continued a slow rise like a river cresting its banks during a flood.

At times I felt like I was barely treading water with concrete blocks strapped to my feet. Where was the ship that had kept me afloat this past month? That ship of faith.

I'd pushed it away, instead focusing on activity, busyness—the doing part of life that kept my mind occupied and my body moving.

But like a flood, grief won't be contained. It doesn't have anywhere to go if we dam it up. It just keeps rising until we can't hold it back.

The dam breaks and out it comes in a rushing torrent, sweeping you along, drowning you with pain.

But the torrent doesn't last once the pressure subsides. Grief spends itself and leaves you hollowed out.

Today I reached for God's hand, desperate for His comfort. Allowing Him to fill the hollow places and renew my bruised soul.

Joy comes in glimpses, flashes of sunlight on a winter day that wink between the yellow leaves and hide behind the dark clouds.

God weaves the joy with the sorrow, the memories with the missing. He blends the colors of our life into a rich tapestry that holds as many tears as laughter.

Our sorrow becomes a blanket of comfort and understanding that He can drape around another's weary shoulders. We can be His arms, His shoulder, His cradling lap to those that need His touch but are too burdened to find Him.

None of our pain is wasted. Every tear is collected, every burden sifted through His fingers.

With Him there is comfort.

Comfort

I checked on the kids before heading for bed and found my strapping twelve-year-old nestled under the covers with his younger brother.

Both of them sawing logs.

He'd told me earlier that he was scared (forty-five minutes into what I'd thought was the tenth ploy to stay up a little later). I hugged him and offered a brief prayer of comfort, but my heart wasn't into it.

My heart was already lusting for the warm bubble bath and pint of Ben and Jerry's that was waiting.

We moms get so weary by the end of the day that it's easy to miss a sincere need in the mine field of wants we navigate daily.

But my son had a need and he figured out a way to get it taken care of. All he needed was a warm body mere inches away to feel safe. Didn't matter that it was the brother he'd threatened to knock the eye teeth out of the day before.

When we have a need, do we go to the One who knows us so well? The One who hears our intimate thoughts?

He is comfort without measure, a mere breath away.