I don’t know if there is a tougher subject to write about.  Maybe it’s because it comes so close to the core, so close to the thing I struggle with the most, that it’s almost like pulling back the curtain and bearing my naked being to all who care to peek.

There is nothing to hide here.  No place to run.  No pontificating about the the simple tricks of how to shortcut to an easier path, no guide to a 10-Steps to a Healthier You. It’s raw and unrehearsed. And oh, so very hard.

And I know you know what I’m talking about.

It is no secret that our roles in life are always changing.  We can be doting mothers in one season, and empty nesters in another —all within a breath of time we can hardly comprehend.  We are daughters and sisters and friends, and even these go through metamorphosis that draws us close or separates.  We are wives and then sometimes we are not. We are in relationships that wax and wane and fill us up or leave us wanting.  

So many faces we show to one another.  

And let’s not forget the one that greets us in the mirror.  The one we can’t pretend with.  The one who knows all the secrets, all the flaws, all the lists of things we hope and pray for, all the yearnings for better days.  This one knows our mistakes, our wishes for what we could do-over, our if-only-I-had-tried-harder whisperings.

We all think there is going to be a place where we arrive and all these roles will read like a memoir, enumerating our achievements, everything all tied up in pretty bows.  We will finally be satisfied, finally able to let it all rest.

Except we don’t.  We ruminate and soothe what can’t be explained with phrases like “I did the best I could” or “If I had only known….” 

What do we do with these unsettled places?  

I was talking to a friend recently, trying to explain the phenomenon of moving on from a role that’s no longer mine —a feeling that the world would long say I should let go of, hang up for good.  “It’s like Phantom Limb Syndrome,” I said.  “Part of me was amputated and yet I still feel it, the nerves still intact, my life blood still flowing to it.”  No matter what I do, what I say, what I try…It’s. Still. There.

I think as faithful people, we are meant to believe that God makes all things better.  He does.  But that doesn’t mean there aren’t heartaches and circumstances and things that come along with us from one season to the next, that we hope will one day change if we just don’t relent in praying and believing for it to happen.

There’s a fine line we walk.  Our hearts yearn for an answer, a resolution.  We learn to somehow lay it all at God’s feet, while still carrying on with today and going about life as if it will never come.

Faith allows us to do both at the same time, and I think that is the whole point. 

When we walk in faith, we understand that God is always at work, always moving, always soothing our spirits even when we don’t know where to put all the fraying places.  He wants us to believe that even when we lose sight of who we are, He never does.  He knows what comes next, and what is next after that, and after that…. He is always moving mountains even when it feels like we are standing still. 

He never, ever said it would be easy.

Letting go comes with peaks and valleys. It comes in drips and dribbles.  It’s comes with constantly realigning where we are with where we want to be and somehow adjusting.  It’s peeling off our grip on situations and people and memories, one finger-hold at the time… And it’s exposing ourselves enough to say we don’t always have it all together.

Whatever it is that keeps you tethered, that has you silently yearning, that has you still waking up at night, know that you are not alone.  God is with you in the midnight hour.  He’s with you in your mourning, in your anguish, in your used to be’s… 

All I can tell you now is this… What you are going through takes time.  In each and every step you take, know that He goes before you and He knows what’s up ahead.  

As long as you have breath, there is hope, there is healing, there is new life.  

Letting go only means you are letting Him do what only He can do.

Just because you still feel things, doesn’t mean you aren’t making progress. 

You are.  

The mountain is moving even when you can’t yet see it.  

You’re doing just fine, girl.  

Keep going.