I have been on the wrong side of those statistics you hear women whisper about nervously. "I couldn't handle that" they say. And inside I think, yes I haven't handled it very well at all.
Lying facedown on the bedroom floor in a house we hastily moved in to escape the toxic memories of our old apartment building, grief and sadness threatened to drown me.
Collapsing in the kitchen, in the middle of making dinner, sobs poured out uncontrolled.
Errands abandoned at the sight of pregnant women and babies.
Fists pounding on my steering wheel in rage, eyes barely able to see the road in front of me.
Shaking, nauseous and always at the edge of falling apart, I started going back to church. Only to leave midway through each Sunday, running out of the sanctuary because of a song, a memory, a hurtful (unintentional) word, the sound of a crying baby.
I haven't handled it at all.
Lying facedown at my Savior's feet, sadness and longing my only words.
Collapsing into my Savior's arms, my tears he caught and held.
My old life abandoned, remade and transformed.
Fists unclenched and open, eyes cast upward, looking forward.
I have been held, carried and kept.
It was never mine to handle.
We are held, carried and kept.