This unraveled heart.

The afternoon is wet and bleak; it resembles much of my unraveled heart.

Clouded skies hang overhead, but now and then they shift slightly, proving there is the hope of sunnier days to come. Whispered truths of "it's okay not to be okay," settle my wandering mind as I attempt to make sense of the hurt at hand. 

At some point, I believe we've all been faced with overwhelming sadness as a person, opportunity, or thing was taken away. Thinking of how the outcome could have been prevented matters not—because in the end, that which was so precious is still gone without our permission.

The more I try to decipher why things like this happen the way they do, the more exasperated I become. 

I've nasty sobbed over the steering wheel in parking lots. I've slept with a roll of toilet paper bedside, in case tears chose to come between 1-4 AM. I've visited places that hold vibrant, exciting memories just to feel something again. I've eaten a few less meals than I should, and then a few more than necessary. I've received consolation from friends, encouraging texts, and copious amounts of chocolate. I've had nightmares. I've had good days and bad days. I've struggled to choose (again and again) to walk the path set before me full of grace, forgiveness, and love.

I've tried figuring it out, to only find what I already knew: I don't have it figured out. 

All it takes is one memory being sparked to set a swirl of questions into motion. There are answers my selfish heart demands and thinks it is entitled to—as if then all things would be made right.

While wrestling through the doubts and questions raised, I have begun to realize that for now, perhaps "not knowing" is God's way of protecting me and growing my dependence on Him.

For me, loss further exposes the pressing need for a Savior to come in and rescue me from my brokenness.

Whether I sit alone in silence at a park on a weeknight or stand amongst a body of believers on a Sunday morning, God sees the stirrings of my loud and aching heart. No amount of comfort compares to that of my Maker. He knows exactly how to care with such tenderness, leading me further into freedom. 

When hard pressed, I cried to the LORD; he brought me into a spacious place. The LORD is with me; I will not be afraid.
— PSALM 118:5-6

The combination of bumps and bruises on this journey are what God uses for purposes far greater than the eye can see.

Philippians 4 speaks of a peace that surpasses all understanding, which acts as a guard over one's heart and mind. Very obviously, I do not know what's best for me. But He knows. And for every area I am tempted to worry, question, or fret about, instead I am able to turn to the God of all comfort and peace.

It may take time as I get accustomed to life looking far differently than I imagined. There may be those days where all of life is a page just waiting to be coloured— waiting for something exceptional and vibrant and full of life to touch it.

I may still eat chocolate covered berries at my desk at work or cry waterfalls as I watch the sunset at the park. I may have cavernous under-eye circles for a little bit longer. I may unravel a tad bit more.

Whatever I may do or need or feel, this I know; if I trust when He gives, I can also trust when He takes away.

Even as I walk through the messiness and respond often out of my own frustration, God continues to cover my undeserving heart with the grace to move forward. He reigns over all.