Cheetah Chasing

For the women of #TheLoft, words of truth, that I needed to hear.


Like a cheetah chasing prey, I have been chasing. Running hard. Running long. I am wild with running. Until I am out of breathe, side aching, and I am worn. Oh so worn.
I careen into walls, broken. I stumble on bricks, scattered. Scraped and bruised, I keep conducting my race as if my very soul depended on it. I am convinced. It does.
How did I end up here? Chasing? Racing? Convinced of such foolishness?
It has been the subtle luring of pain. The outcast of grief, hidden.
When your son dies, there is no recourse but to trust.
When your house burns and you have no place to live, you must cling.
But when your daughter with the wayward cells is slowly being gnawed away like some squirrel chewing on an acorn, what do you do then?
Me? I've stopped eating and lose twenty pounds.
I  no longer sleep, startled awake by angst and heartache. I walk through my days deprived of rest.
And I weep. Just weep. Over the impending loss of yet one more child. Over how she suffers and hurts. A mother's knowing, the cleft in her own heart, when a daughter is wounded.
I search for support groups and pills to numb the pain. I visit doctors and counselors, all in hopes of having it all stop. To end such a horrific circumstance for my child. For my family. Again.
In all this chasing, the light begins to dawn like the sun rising in the early, the rays peeping over the edge. Truth begins to clarify my efforts for what they really are.
Self. Effort.
Self. Reliance.
It has all been an attempt to find strength within a weak muscle. To find hope in a vessel, leaking. Even to find comfort in a knocked-down wall.
I have attempted to fix it, to salve it, to eradicate the sorrow. It has been like trying to chop down a tree with a toothpick. It would be funny if it wasn't so foolish. So fruitless.
It's as if, in this hidden grief, I have forgotten, completely forgotten, who my God is. I have acted as if He is no longer the God of ALL comfort. Assumed there was no comfort for this. Oh, no, not for this. Believed that this situation is exempt. From His goodness. His mercy. His grace.
I have expected warmth from a blanket worn thin with use. The blanket of I.
I can do this.
I have to figure this out.
I need to carry this load, alone.
When all along, my Father has been waiting, with arms aching to hold, to carry, to caress with gentle strokes. He has been longing for me to run. Straight to Him.
He is good. He is Sovereign and able to expose His goodness in the midst of this hideous hurt.
He is the Father of Mercy. Mercy begins and ends and extends all in between, with Him.
Like a clothesline strung between two trees, He connects this circumstance with His love, His faithfulness. There are no gaps, no spaces unable to hang my grief upon. It is long enough, extensive enough. To hold everything. Every. Thing.
Panting, out of breathe, with legs shaking from strain, I turn aside from all this running, at least for this moment, and collapse into Him.
The One whose Son died. For me.
And my eyes are opened at last.
God? He understands. His Son died. And He knew, from the very beginning of time, that He would. It was a Father's knowing, a cleft in His heart, that He chose. Willingly chose. He entered that valley of grief, for the love of me. For all the I-s of self-effort. My Father?  He gets it. This slow tearing of my heart.
It's time to run another race. A different one. It's time to fix my eyes on Jesus.

"Let us run with endurance the race God has set before us. We do this by keeping our eyes on Jesus, the champion who initiates and perfects our faith. Because of the joy awaiting Him, He endured the cross, disregarding the shame. "
Hebrews 12:1-2 NLT

#TheLoft