a little death

That's my picture of the day from the 22nd.

I'm still taking pictures.

But I'm having a hard time being grateful. I try, and I could write a cute little something every day, like the sunsets, the piano, the drawers that have nothing in them in the kitchen. But I don't feel like forcing the smile anymore. I recognize the spoiled-brattiness of it all, but somehow that doesn't make it any easier to find the joy.

Here's what I know.

We were supposed to move to this house. It was designed in the heavens. Why? I don't know. I sincerely, truly, honestly don't know.

But I know God is a loving Father. I know this. I have experienced washes of this love, time after time after time. I absolutely trust Him.

Except when I don't.

Everything still feels broken. Leaving my perfect piece of paradise shattered me more than I knew it would. And I knew it would. I knew there would be a mourning process, that losing everything so beloved and familiar would be like a little death. And yet somehow I thought I'd be strong through it all, that I'd be very very sad, but that I'd be strong.

Instead I am petty. I am angry. I am lost. I am worried. I am tired. I am so very very bone tired.

I thought I knew about endurance. I thought I knew about hanging on to the end. This is much harder. Now I know one of the reasons I was inspired to run that race was to understand that some things are hard for a long long long time. Sometimes the end is way farther away than you want it to be, than you need it to be. And somehow, somewhere the strength comes and you make it just that next step. Just that next block. Just that next mile.

The hard thing is that I see no finish line here. There's only the hope that taking on each hour will bring me closer to whatever joy there will be. And the hope that whatever strength I have is enough. I don't think it's enough. Not right now, anyway.

I keep running (when I can actually get out of bed) to the Shoreline Trail. When I'm on the trail, I feel the hand of God. I remember His work in my life.

And on the Trail, I can believe there will be joy again.

I think I believe it.

I'll work on believing it.

But forgive me if it takes a while to write my gratitude posts. They make me want to puke right now.

If you say it's always darkest before the dawn, I'll smack you.) (Or make you read more of my whining.) (And don't worry. I know it really IS darkest before the dawn.) (And I have already taken responsibility for being a brat, so you don't need to point that out, either. I have been very blessed, and I will be sure to be grateful for all of these blessings at the appropriate time.) (And you could say that moving to a new house doesn't really qualify as a real trial. I will agree with you, and point out that I DO know what real trials are like. This doesn't make me feel better, however.)

I am likely to regret posting this in the morning, as I do most things I do after 1:00 am.