Jesus hands me a forever-open invitation to bring my faithless groaning and exhausted doubts and messy wounds into His comforting presence.
Jesus looks at me with compassionate eyes and invites me to tell Him everything. He will hear me. He won’t look away. He won’t scold me for struggling, for limping along this path.
What if our deepest losses aren’t the end of the story, but rather the beginning?
My story is messy. My story has more conflict and drama than I’d hoped to encounter. My story isn’t one I’d want to see printed in ink on the pages of a book.
When circumstances cut us down at the knees and we want to scream and call foul, we actually can choose what happens next.
What if the process of putting one mud-stained foot in front of the other is the messy pathway to the wild goodness of healing?
Grief at Christmas is hard. But Christmas is for your grief.
“Kill the good girl,” I think. “It’s her time to die.”
A safe and kind and sturdy shoulder. A shoulder that says “I’m here for you” without saying a word at all.
However disappointment comes, whatever package it’s wrapped in, it’s always an unwelcome visitor.