Broken Together

Grief is weird.

I don’t feel emotional, but my body betrays me.

I am ravenous and I suddenly realize that my hands are on fire.

Too much washing.  I do this when I am stressed.

I’m never much for small talk, but in these days I cannot stomach it at all.

And so I push away from people and lock my eyes on

The Things That Must Get Done

Feed the babies.

Take the babies to school and daycare.

Eat something.

Drink some water.

Try to sleep.

The rest is left undone.

Sixty emails that I cannot bear to read (if they are from you, I am sorry).

Piles of papers that I do not have the energy to carry six feet to the recycling.

Crumbs on the dining room floor that I cannot bear to bend down and throw away.

It is ok.

I give myself permission to lie on the couch while the littles play.

Because I know this will not be forever.

I am a good faker, I think.

I will smile and lie to your face if you ask me how I am.

And I will fool most of you.

This is ok, I guess.

But even though I push away, even though I tell you I am fine.

I am grateful for the ones who come sit anyway.

The one who watches my littles so I can have a minute alone.

The one who arrives on my doorstep with dinner.

The one who prays and texts even when she doesn’t know what’s going on.

The ones who show up when there are no words.  And stay when I insist I am fine.

I am grateful for the ones who let mourning and hope exist in the same space.

Today, when my pastor talks about being broken together, he is not just talking about husbands and wives.

He’s talking about us too, friends.

About the sisters of my heart.

The ones who come sit anyway.

The ones who admit they don’t know what to say.

The ones who know intuitively that healing sometimes happens when we just let ourselves be broken together.

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