No Sound But a Cry

Today, I woke up and my anxiety was there. I tried to shake it off, and usually morning routines like making pour-over coffee and spending time with the Lord help. I did some stretches while tuning in on my church service; eventually, I transitioned to lighting a candle, turning on worship music and just laying there. 

Usually, running helps. I went for a run in the afternoon and halfway through, I started to hyperventilate. And then you know, one thing led to another and there I was, running and crying while gasping for air. I think to myself, Grace, you should really call someone. But I don't want to call anyone because I don't know how I would be able to express the inexpressible pain I sometimes feel deep down in my chest. It's the kind of pain that expresses itself in a cry: visceral, guttural, raw, laced with all the buried and unacknowledged nuances of past and present pain. A kind of cry that jolts me awake and reminds me that there are pieces of me that are stuck in the past. And as much as I sound like a broken record, what brings me back to the present is putting one foot in front of the other and continuing to run. 

Lord, I thank you that you are not a stranger to pain. You are not a stranger to the type of alienation that characterizes pain. As much as my pain is singularly my own, you above all others know exactly what I am thinking and what I am feeling. The invitation to come and lay this broken heart and this broken spirit down at the foot of the cross beckons me once again. So I run to you, and come just as I am.