What healing looks like.

As I have so often lately, I feel a general tearing in the universe and within my own heart, and am working not to dissolve into tears.

I try to confine the daily (sometimes several times daily) crying jags to the moments when I am alone in my house, or alone in my car, or laying in bed praying for rest.

I'm tired. Bruised. Shattered.

I'm remembering.

I'm looking backwards. And forwards.

I was surprised to find, in the midst of a conversation last night, that some olds wounds have healed. Or mostly healed. And I was surprised at the ones that still sting.

I'm waiting. To see. To hear. To know. To be finished.

I'm praying. With my own words. And words I've borrowed.

For myself. And the nations. And especially those I love deeply.

I'm lonely. And reminding myself that I am not alone.

I'm feeling ugly and unworthy of love. But reminding myself that these too, are lies.

Maybe this is what healing looks like?