Opinion

For a long while, I have tried to think about what to say and how to say it. I’ve tried to figure out exactly what this pain is inside me. This aching. This longing. I have stood here in my pleasant life and watched people I know and love endure sickness, heartbreak, death, mental illness. I have crumpled inside thinking of a friend burying his son. Of my college roommate sitting by her father’s bedside, holding his hand as he took his final breath. I have watched wars rage from afar. I have gone about the busyness of carting children to their various activities. I’ve completed writing projects, had lots of meetings, and prepared to teach Sunday school. I have decked out my house for Christmas, comforted my kids, and cried many tears myself over various heartaches in this world. I have cooked meals and done laundry and watched the news and felt burdened and beat down. All this illness and death and heartbreak. Even all this mundane day-to-day. All these precious memories of my kids’ childhoods are slipping through my fingers as the years march on. All this unpredictability. All this dread. I suppose that I, normally the optimist, have spent some time swimming in the proof all-around me that this world is a sad, sad place. In fact, I wouldn’t say that I’ve been swimming in that reality as much as I have been drowning in it.