Sometimes the world does feel heavy and broken. If you don't know it by now, I'm sorry to say, at some point you will. Even for a moment. Like a glitch in the code, you'll see something that shouldn't be and know,
No, no, this is not how it should be.
I have stayed silent behind doors, both literal and proverbial, waiting for the earth to shift under my feet and lay me down to sleep.
I've stared at city lights on my ceiling, counted the squares of reflected glass, feeling the beat of my own heart. I have reached the end of my paper prayers and whispers. Jutting my chin toward heaven while thrusting my hands in my rock-heavy pockets, as if to say, "I don't know what else there is to say to you. It's not like you're listening anyway."
With coffee steaming and floors creaking, I have paced the floors from Texas to New York. Waiting. Longing. Knowing that the only thing that needed to change was me and my bleeding heart.
(Sometimes you're not waiting for people. Or for something. Or for a word. Or a plan. Sometimes you're just waiting for the waiting to be over.)
Something needed to be stitched up, fixed and mended before I would be able to stop lying to people when they asked, "And how are you?" I ran miles for months, and then sat numbly for a few more, opened my heart, slammed it shut, and have tried to tell it to take a back seat for awhile.
I once laid my head upon a stone Texas concrete floor, nauseous, empty, violated. I packed my car more than once, and moved us finally here, to a home that we call home (for now).
And I can't all say it's been perfect. Or easy. Or great. Or what I wanted. Or what I hoped for. Or that I'm even done with all the pacing, waiting, and midnight heart thumping against yellow streetlights.
But then today, we drove slowly under trees. I dropped her off at school. I cradled a hot coffee, read a few pages from a book. I said to those who listen,
"It's not all bad. Some of it's good. Some of it is really good." And those words swing like a lighthouse's beam through the waves of my heart to say:
"See? See, young, weary traveler? Even out here, where the waves knock and rattle, someone delivered lumber and light to perch here. Someone sailed and dropped anchor and called this place home. See, tiny whimpering sailor girl, who wonders why the Master is asleep? This ocean was conquered once and will be again. Sail on."
So, tonight, as I hang up her pink backpack, and feel that warm peace that seems to cover even the things I think don't deserve peace, I thank God for city lights, ocean lights, star lights, swinging through this dark night of a world.
Someone has conquered it all once, and will again.