Not Today

Yesterday morning I woke up sad with an emptiness in my heart. My kids are struggling with trauma--it's been an ongoing battle for the last four years, but these past four months have been intense and exhausting and emotionally depleting. It will be a year on Thursday that the mother of one of my oldest friends died unexpectedly. Another mass shooting over the weekend. Fractured relationships.

There really is so much brokenness in the world. So much that I'm finding it difficult to live mercifully lately. To live purposefully lately.

Yesterday I had a spare 20 minutes between school drop off and work, so I went for a walk at a little lake even though I just wanted to pull into a nearby park, let my seat down, and sleep. It was cold outside, 29 degrees, but the sun was shining, and save for a pair of Mallards, I was the only living being at the lake. I walked along the bike path that meanders through the park. I shoved my cold hands deep into my pockets and let my shoulders sag so I could nuzzle my neck and chin into my coat away from the morning wind.

As I walked, I wanted to be awestruck by the beauty of a cold, Nebraska morning. I tried to savor the soft crunch of nearly dried leaves beneath my feet. I stopped to take a few photos of the sun shining through some bare branches, the waves slapping against the rocks on the beach. I feel most at home in this world when I'm outside, so usually, nature has a way of pulling me out of whatever slump I'm in. Not today, I thought.

I wanted to confidently prayer walk around that lake, stomp out the grief with every step and hallelujah. I couldn't even whisper a prayer yesterday morning. Not today.


What's a person supposed to do with grief? Do we sit in it, allow it to consume us? Do we share it with our friends? Do we write it down and fold it up, bury it in the backyard? Do we give it up to God as an un-glamorous, hot mess offering?

I didn't know what to do with my grief yesterday. Nothing seemed sufficient. I was ashamed of my sadness, at my inability to pull myself up by my proverbial bootstraps. You see, sadness is not Midwestern. Resilience is Midwestern. And my roots lie deep in the diverse Midwestern soil--dark black, clay-red, sandy.

I didn't know what to do, so I kept walking. One step, and then another. One thought, and then another. I went to work. I talked with students and listened to their stories about migrating here, about working in the meatpacking plants, about the risks they took just to reach America. I came home. I cooked dinner for my family and listened to my kids talk about their highs and lows for the day. I washed dishes and listened to my kids laugh and run through the house with my husband and our dog. I fell asleep listening to my husband breathe.

The world is still broken, but today I feel better. Maybe I feel better because it's a new day with a new perspective. I think, my improved outlook, though, has more to do with what I didn't do yesterday. I didn't have the energy to do, so instead, I listened. It's all I could muster. I listened first to my thoughts, then my steps, and then to others. And slowly, I began to feel better. The antidote today seemed to be slowing down enough to do one thing at a time and to listen to only that which is around me.