My voice is a sword.
My brain and heart and eyes are all sorts of drowning in crazy. I can’t trust a damn thing any of them say or feel.
But I can keep speaking good. I can wield that sword.
I can speak of life-affirming things- like how Arlow crouches down with his butt in the air when he wants to play, and every time someone says (in words or actions) that they love me, and warmer days. I don’t have to check with my brain and heart and eyes. I don’t have to ask them to validate the good inherent in life. They can’t be trusted anyway.
I will speak what I know to be good and true, even when everything else in me is screaming in contrary protest.
My voice is the rebel-rouser of my body.
I met with my therapist yesterday. I was crying in earnest, completely drowning in the fear of this battle that is so, so much bigger than me. But then she said something that struck me as funny, and with tears running down my face, I started laughing.
And I thought… Is there anything more telling of hope, and that good wins, than when laughter shows up and is somehow bigger than our tears?
I can’t control my sadness any more than I can control my laughter.
I can’t control my depression or my panic.
But I can hold tight to this sword. And I can trust that God is as much in the tears as He is in the laughter.
And none of it is wasted.
A bigger-than-me fight isn’t reason to despair. It’s reason to stand firm and wait on the God for whom nothing is too big.