sunday.

I walk into the bathroom and am surprised when looking in the mirror. Surprised at the welling up of tears glazing my eyes and my feeble stupid attempts to hold them in. I woke up with my eyes nearly swollen shut… how much more is left in those ducts?! But, it is Sunday. I think every week for at least the last 4 or 5 weeks, I have said, out loud to myself at some point or another, " I hate Sundays." I'm not entirely sure it's true. I think six days of the week is my capacity to quell the grief. I can hide it from the world for six days… and on the seventh day, I need a rest. The bandages fall off, like the adhesive will no longer hold. Right around midnight the panic attacks begin, and I'm in bed hyperventilating, praying to just fall asleep. Sunday morning is the hardest day to pull myself from the white haven of blankets and the warm of the dogs. If I make myself get to church, it begins sooner than later. I sit alone in a room full of people. I look around and find familiar faces everywhere, but they'll not notice I'm there. I'm not there to be seen. I'm there to unfold… to be unfolded. And sure enough, some invisible blanket wraps round and I'm hidden behind some veil of grace. The silent room is permeated with a story being unwrapped for my soul. There is sweet relief here. I am met by this strange feeling of release mingling with failure. I thought I'd done so well. Come to terms. You know, all of those therapy sort of phrases we Westerners use to explain that which we really know very little about…. The human heart and it's strength… and it's frailty. Today, he said that it hurts so deeply, when you love so deeply. I've heard that before, but it brought comfort in hearing it again. Unlike most Sundays where I'm happy to unravel in the shadows in movements of worship, I wanted to leave. It doesn't matter, though whether I stay in bed or head to church, those hands will find me wherever it is that I may be on Sundays. They will find me and unwrap the bandages. They find me and clean my still gaping wounds. Ever so gently applying some soothing balm. They take care to gently wrap them back up. And I fall to a million pieces. I am absolutely alone, but wrapped up by this invisible presence.

It's the quietest day…. and I break again and again and again.

I long for the days when the heaviness is gone from my heart. On Sunday I'm able to weep for the great weight. On Sunday I don't have to pretend it's all ok. Homesick for family, for loving souls who will wrap me up in their arms where I can disappear for just a little while. I long for resolution or for deep sleep. What would sleep do, though, but leave my wounds unattended to and allow some cruel reprieve… only for the pain to intensify the moment I am once again conscious. I have never been so tired… so utterly exhausted. I have never reached such a depth in the seas of sorrow. So I suppose I've never loved so deeply. And I have never been so full of hope in such a dark night… yet I've never felt such agony in waiting for the sun to rise.