My Path

I have to be honest, because I hate liars and imposters. The very act of lying to me is so atrocious and dreadful.

I am not strong. I am not amazing. I am not good. I merely am moving in the only direction I can. If I had a choice, I would not be walking this path; I would have gone running in another direction long ago. When the doctor got that horrible look on his face, I would have rung the bell and have chose a different outcome. Instead of what I truly saw, I would have chosen a living baby. I would be seventeen weeks along today. Kicking and activity would still be felt. I wouldn’t know he was a boy.

To the world, I am composed, strong. I move through the day with that glass smile. Only one person can see beyond the farce. He knows. And he loves me anyway. I laugh when I am supposed to, tell my funny stories on cue, pretend to be lively when required. Inside, there’s a different story.

Inside, I frown sometimes, I cry at moments. Inside, I feel weak, old, jaded, and bitter. I cannot pray. When I do, it’s merely words, no emotions. No sense of Faith or belief. The conviction isn’t there. At Mass, I don’t feel the sweeping emotions of gratitude, happiness, connection with God. I feel empty.

I closed the door. I shut it hard. And locked it. Everything is contained in there. Sometimes, insensitive people have come and knocked in it, curious as to what happened. They ask horrible questions, demand to hear details. I have felt such hatred at those moments. Horrible. All-consuming, burning hatred that demands to be let out. I don’t let anyone in all the way. I merely show them into the foyer, and we stay there. Everyone. And that is bad.

I have had people tell me I am strong. I am an inspiration. I don’t know why. I am not. I am lost, blind, cold. I am searching for The Way, but cannot find it. I long for The Sight, but cannot place it. I yearn for The Warmth, but He doesn’t seem to be here. I call out, wildly, desperately, but He does not hear. No one hears. So I sit. Waiting. Hurting. Sometimes hating.

I am not strong. I am a weak, faulted person. I had no choice but to continue walking this path that was chosen for me. I would have chosen another way; I would detour if given a choice. So, strong, inspiring, amazing, I am not.

I would like to know what people see in me that is inspiring. Amazing. Strong. I do not see it. Maybe because I am blind? Lost? Cold? In this giant, swirling blizzard of my life I stand calling out. In the noise and chaos, He doesn’t hear. He hasn’t come. Instead, He took my treasure from me and went far away.

Still, I stumble behind Him, groping in the darkness for some guidance. A branch, a word. I continue till I find it. Because this is my path. This is what was chosen for me.

One thought on “My Path

  1. When Job had everything that was dear to him torn away from him he was frustrated. He didn't understand. He doubted God's justice and His goodness. He no longer felt as if God had his personal interests in mind at all. Yet, throughout history he is known as a strong individual because he didn't doubt God's existence even if he questioned His mercy, and he remained humble in the knowledge that “the Lord giveth and the Lord taketh away, blessed be the name of the Lord.” There were a lot of moments after that when he didn't really “bless” the Lord. God gave him a bit of a hard time about that at the end. BUT, Job believed throughout his dark night.

    Strength isn't the absence of doubt or frustration or pain. Strength is the knowledge that there is something/someone bigger than yourself and there are answers beyond anything we can comprehend. Strength is to continue to search for the One who you know has the answers (and who allows the questions to drive us crazy.) We are not called to know, and understanding is a gift. We are called to have a child-like faith. Children get punished by their parents and then run to that same parent for comfort. God allows us to go through extraordinarily painful things; child-like faith sends us back to Him to get strength to face another day anyways.

    I've found that the things that deepen me in life (and increase my capacity for love) are sufferings that few can understand or relate to. I think that's why saints stand out from everyone else–few have taken the road they take; few have stood face to face with the worst of human suffering and believed that it was worthwhile to continue onward; few have lost everything and still chosen to love; and few have realized that you can't love Christ fully and simultaneously reject His cross. The mystery of Christian suffering is that it is unfair and yet, like our innocent Savior and like His sorrowful mother, we must endure.
    I'm not telling you not to grieve. That's normal. I want you to know that people do care and are praying for you, even if they can't relate exactly and will not perfectly understand the bond between you and your little angel. I love you. Keep taking one step at a time. You will be blessed.


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