Transparency

I often speak of the strength that I find within myself. The feeling I have that God is leading my path, this curvy road that led me to where I am now, with so many twists and turns that I know no map could have gotten me here on my own. I write of this strength often because I feel it is part of my identity, this identity that God is revealing to me daily. This strength that is ingrained in my heart, my heart that belongs to not only me, but to my love.

But, there are times that I don’t feel strong. I ache with an ache that can’t be described to those who have never felt it. It overcomes my core and I shake with anxiety. Let me try to find my earthly words to explain, in hope that it may help those who need it. For, what good is it to share your strength, if you don’t share your weakness? 

I’ve been feeling a strong urge to run away. To be rid of the burdens that seem to weigh on my shoulders, these shoulders that feel like they strain to continuously stay pulled back, strong in demeanor, ready for the next battle and ready to look as if I have it together. I long to run away, to be rid of the title that seems to quietly sneak into my conscious, a title that makes my heart cry out, fighting against this word with all it has.

Widow.

I struggle to stay present because everything in me wants to either rewind or fast forward. This present moment cries out for my attention and my intention is to always answer the cry, give this present moment the respect that it deserves, for, I now know, we have nothing if we don’t have this present moment. But, I don’t want to give this moment my attention. My heart turns away from this moment as if it is electric and it wants to escape the shock. So often this happens that I have to diligently remind my heart to turn back, look at those around me, and smile for the moment that I am granted.

But, when I do, when I look at those around me, I am reminded that Curt is not standing next to them. That I am a widow and that I don’t get to fast forward to when it may seem even less foggy than this current reality that is vastly less foggy then it was a year ago. It is a cycle. The endless cycle of grief.

My heart aches for Curt. It bleeds for Curt. It pours out bloody tears that mix together and I feel weak from their loss. The mess that pours out of me is so extravagant that I struggle to hide the pool that slowly surrounds my feet. This puddle that shows my weakness and is a tangible sign of my reality, I desperately try to clean it up without others getting concerned. Hoping that all they can see is the girl with her shoulders held back and her eyes towards tomorrow.  The amazingly transparent girl that Curt married, the girl that holds his heart in her own, the girl that believes she can move mountains and change the world. 

Widow.

I know these moments, to, will pass. I know this because I am becoming a veteran at this… this title, these feelings, this loss of bloody tears. I now understand the weight of the word. The weight of the darkness that surrounds you when you are bleeding, and I know well the feeling when it passes and the bleeding stops, if even for a little while.

I began these words by talking about my strength, and I did so for a reason. My strength is in simple, humble faith. In Jesus. I don’t know how I would keep walking without His light. Without Him here to help me clean up my bloody mess. He is there, right beside me, helping me with the burden of clean up.

Widow.

I will walk by faith, even if I can’t see the road ahead of me, and, sometimes, when I can’t even see the ground beneath me because of the mess. When I see nothing but water ahead of me, I will keep walking with unfaltering faith, until the water parts. I will keep walking toward the water, getting my feet steady, ready to move a mountain and change the world.