Thursday, July 30, 2009

Not Defined by My Mascara (thank you for sharing this..........i've copied from a 'sister'.
I was never a crier.

I took great pride in that truth, it just wasn't cool.

But then, my sons died and I couldn't stop crying.

In the car, in the bed, at the table in the restaurant, at church, outside, inside, everywhere in between, I cried.

I have been fighting my way back to that "non-crier" status. I remember feeling strong before and I'm longing to be that girl again.

Every single day, I pause and contemplate which mascara to choose. Waterproof or not waterproof? Lately, I've been feeling a little brave and a bit rebellious as I grab the navy blue tube that tells me I will not cry today. And most days, I don't. I don't want to be a sad girl. I don't want to be the sensitive one that people tiptoe around. I want to be honest and genuine and true, but I also want to be real and tender and pliable between the fingers of my God. I want Him to go right ahead and make me into whatever He wants me to be.

Then I want Him to use me, no matter how I protest. Eight years ago, I thought an eternity would have passed by now. But, the thing is, it just really hasn't. The way the Lord has moved through my life has been so beautiful and downright breathtaking and you won't find a more grateful girl than me. But, oh how I still miss my boys!

It's hard. I'm scared. I'm tired. And it hurts.

And, as the song says, I know who wants to be the One I run to first. It's not my lifelong friend. It's not my mentor. It's not even my man. It's my Father. He wants me to run to Him first. He must watch me run to and fro with this scarred up heart, shaking His head and wishing I would just reach for Him like I should. I find great comfort in knowing He knows my heart and the truth that lies there, because if all He knew was all others see... whew.

The emotional roller coaster continues, I am just learning to be a quieter passenger. I don't scream so often anymore. I have been up these hills and plummeted to these lows so many times now that I just hold on tight and trust they'll pass, just like the long, straight stretches do. Still, sometimes I reach a point where my head is spinning and my stomach has flipped one too many times and I find myself weary and spent, begging to get off this grief ride. The navy blue tube of mascara fails me and black streams stain my cheeks again, marking me as the broken woman I am.

But, you know what? There's beauty there, too.

We're all broken. If the light shines on us long enough, the cracks will show.

It's what we do with those cracks - and those tears - that matter. Do we let them transform us into something we never could have been before? Do we let them cleanse our eyes, that we might see more clearly than before? Do we let them spur us on toward good deeds and great purpose? Do those scars remind us to push through the pain? Do our memories ask us what we are afraid of?

Maintaining a facade is exhausting work.Time spent pretending is precious time wasted.

We'll never be given this second again.

My boys taught me that.

Tears might equal weakness, but my weakness equals His strength.

I don't know about you, but I think I'll just let my tears roll when they may and I'll offer the pain that comes with them as a sacrifice to my Lord. I'll bite my lips, push my shoulders back, put one foot in front of the other, and I'll keep on keepin' on.

I think I might be a crier after all.

But only for a little while.

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