I've told you before: I'm wide open. Only sometimes I'm not, because the story doesn't belong to me. It affects me and--in some cases--sends me right to the edge with a long, bony finger. But it's not mine to tell.
I have two stories, right now, that I can't tell in this place because--even though they grieve me more than my own story--they're not technically mine. It bothers me not to share; I really do believe most of my readers pray...or at least send good thoughts. I need prayer and good thoughts. I prefer specific prayer and good thoughts. I feel like the not-sharing of my hurts piles more hurt upon the hurts.
Sometimes, lately, I can hardly breathe.
And it's not about the miscarriage, although I carry some residual pain, to be sure, and it's hard to take on heavy things when your ribs are sore. Or when your back is already bent under the weight of your own story.
People say: give it to the Lord. I love that concept. I love the idea of casting something at the foot of the cross and leaving it there, walking away feeling light as a feather. It doesn't usually work like that for me. It works more like that sike (psych) game we played as kids. I extend the problem to God, and--just as He gets ready to take it--I pull it back and yell: "Sike!"
I tell myself: Let. it. go. You can't fix it. I know I'm right! But I can't let go of the hope that the pain in my continuous pleas to God matters to God: like maybe He will look down at my kneeling and sobbing and think: "My girl is cracking up. I need to fix this for her."
If the Lord is close to the brokenhearted (Psalm 34:18), I wonder, is it best to allow my heart to remain broken? Don't bother answering that question. Just pray for all my unwrittens. And--while you're at it--pray for my soul. It's saved, but trust and believe: it needs prayer.