I am convinced that sometimes life is so good and so happy and so wonderful that I just can’t stand it.
And so I have to do something to mess it all up.
No, really. I really, really believe it.
Call it the curse of the twisted soul or something equally sinister sounding.
It’s not intentional.
(Or at least I don’t think it is).
(I don’t mean for it to be).
But I’m skipping along, singing some bright and airy show tune and then…
It’s not always something big.
(Although sometimes it is).
But either way, it steals my joy.
And tears crash down my cheeks.
And there’s no shortage of sobs or snot.
I begin to empty out my aches, one drip at a time…
And they race to fall the fastest, the hardest.
(Even my tears are over-achievers).
I rarely cry without thinking about a book I read years ago.
It spoke of pain as if it were a blessing, reminding us that without pain we wouldn’t know relief.
Without grief and sadness, we couldn’t ever really wrap our minds around what is good and wonderful.
Without tribulations, we couldn’t really comprehend joy.
And – in some ways – I hope that it’s true.
I hope that my tears remind me of what I have that is good.
And that the physical release facilitates an emotional one.
I pray that with each tear that falls, a pain is washed away.
And with each shuttering gasp, I am taking in a gulp of goodness and grace.
Because goodness and grace are ours for the taking.
For from his fullness we have all received, grace upon grace. John 1:16