carry the weight of love

This past Friday, I went to visit my sister. She moved out of Georgia and into Tennessee last spring. I miss having her near but I love that she’s happy there and that I get to go see her. We drove around the city she now calls home and coffee-shop-hopped. We shared tea and a pastry and chatted the way only people who have known each other their whole lives can. Without explanation, with understanding. It was such a good day, like a breath of fresh air I needed to clear the cobwebs in my head. I was stuck in traffic on my way home but I turned on my favorite Josh Garrels song and sang out the words

Lift up your shoulders child
Breathe in
Carry the weight of love
You’ve been given

When I got home, I cried. I cried because I missed my mom. I cried because we’ve lived so much life without her now. I cried because sometimes I'm anxious and I want my mommas reassurance and prayers and because life has been hard in a million other ways for two years now and years before that, too and sometimes it seems endless. 

If I’m honest, talking about grief these days makes me feel like a bad christian. I feel like people look to me expectantly, waiting to hear the perfect bible verses and a uplifting message about finding joy through pain and how God has restored hope to my soul. 

He has. But it’s not all been pretty and easy. It’s not a Facebook-shareable inspirational soundbite that makes you feel good. It’s been David’s cries. It's been learning to sing again. It’s been a hard two years and I can’t package it up in a way to make the story sound better. It is a story of redemption and sanctification but it's a slow and painful and unfinished one. It's steps forward and back. It's knowing the goodness of God and also feeling the weariness of life and death. Sometimes I still cry after a good day. And I may always.