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Confessions: Six Months Gone

When I began this blog, I intended to post twice a month. Yet, here we are six months after my last post, and I have not even published a thought provoking sentence. I could make a lot of excuses, but the truth is I needed space--space from my grief, ever-going anxious thoughts, and from the reality of suffering with a chronic illness. Somehow, six months have come and gone, and I have very little to show for it.

I do not talk about my illness very often, if at all, but it has taken most of my time and energy these past six months. I have been to so many doctors, had so many exams, gone through more treatments than I can count, and we still aren't fully sure how we are going to move forward. Six months of my life has come and gone, and I have very little to show for it.

I have thought about writing post after post, but finding words for what is happening in the world has been harder than I had ever thought possible. I have stared at blank pages, blinking cursors, written and rewritten sentence after sentence, and none of it has been able to capture my reality, or the state of the world's reality. So much can happen in six months, and, yet, six months have come and gone and I have very little to show for it.

It feels as though a giant pause button has been pushed in regard to my life, and I do not deal with the uncertainty well. There is a power in planning and knowing that I love. I love certainty. I love the safety that it brings, and how productive I am when things go as I desire. Moving in slow motion is not really my style, but it has been my reality. I am not fully present in anything and yet fully wanting everything. I feel full and empty, stable and weak, vulnerable and lonely. But, I think what is hitting me hardest is the time that I have lost.

Grief is an interesting beast. It lurks in the deep and rears its ugly head over and over. And, right now the entire world is in a stage of grief, and none of us really know what to do. Everything is unknown, and those of us with the ability to stay safe in our homes are the lucky ones. Simply surviving is the goal, and none of us know how long that is going to last.

In the midst of all this, time still moves forward and people still manage to live their lives in a world where normal no longer exists, if it ever did at all.

Life has always been unpredictable, a fact I have to face on a regular basis, no matter how much I dislike it. It is in times like these that I cling to deep rooted traditions of my faith--I lament. I pray with my tears and seek relief from all the suffering inside and outside of me. Where words fail, groans of despair suffice. My shame runs deep, because of my inability to do something to change my circumstances. Six months have come and gone, and I have nothing to show for it.

There is no pretty resolution to this post. I have no bow to tie around the ending or promise that everything will be okay in the end. But, I cannot think of a better way to enter the most holy week of the Christian year. I cannot help but think of Jesus, lamenting his own forsakenness. I cannot help but think about my faith that tells me that God died, and God waited in the darkest valley of death before the breath of life filled once lifeless lungs. Three days had passed and no one thought there would be anything to show for it.

So, six months have passed, and many more days have come and gone in a dark valley of despair and uncertainty. I may have very little to show for it, but the promise of joy and life hang in the air waiting to rise like the sun every morning. But for now, I sit in the dark. I lament. I wait. I scan the horizon and breathe the breath of life into my lungs, awaiting resurrection.

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