Sitting on the floor of my darkened closet. Door closed. Weeping. Unable to form the words.
Through the sobs… faint whispers.
The words won’t come.
The only prayer that bubbles up to the surface…
“just…help me. Help me.”
“…help me to get off of this floor…just help me to stand up.”
I can’t move.
I can’t move forward. The world is spinning with grief and confusion and sorrow.
Dave, my kind, gentle, rock-solid-faith husband, finds me. He doesn’t say anything. He simply offers his hand. I place my hand in his and am pulled to my feet.
My Jesus hears me. He sees me. He knows that I need someone – this man – whom I trust to hold me near and not ask me to explain my sorrow. The words won’t come. The tears flow … and, gently, silently, the little closet is transformed into Holy ground. We stand together. United by our Father’s love for us, for our children, for our daughter. We stand firm in Him. Holding tightly to one another. Knowing that God is near.
In the light of dawn, the sorrow makes way for truth.
I read these words, I cling to these words…