Many nights, I would go to bed by the electric glow of my screen, keeping me from rest. And even when I shut off my screen, I couldn’t shut off my mind; I would lay in bed and all the news and opinions would rattle around in my soul. Sometimes, it made my heart feel anxious, like a tight a fist. Other times I felt a sense of panic. Panic over the state of the world. And sometimes, I would just feel angry. “How could they say that? How could they think that?” The world felt dark and chaotic. And I was drinking it in, cup after cup, right before bed. It was no way to “rest.” I needed to come away from there. Here’s how I did it, and what I learned.
In the few days between learning that Noah had died and giving birth to his lifeless body, I awakened throughout the night, unable to sleep, knowing that my child had passed away in my womb. During those nights, God filled my mind with Scriptures and songs. And I kept hearing that phrase, “Do not be offended by me.”
What if there is a beautiful view He wants you to see—but social media is keeping a pair of blurry glasses over your eyes? What if there is something He wants to say—but social media is adding in the clamor of a thousand other voices into your ears, drowning Him out? I’m not promising you that if you surrender social media the rest of this summer it will be an earthquake , or a wind, or a fire, but perhaps, it will simply be His still small voice, whispering, telling you something that no one else can tell you. Because He is God.
Summer is like a wedding. Pedals float through the air. Birds sing. The sticky aroma of peony’s and primroses blooming, giving off their beautiful fragrance. I feel like God is alluring me–to Himself as I walk through my neighborhood and watch the petals dance in the breeze. It’s as if He’s calling out, “Come to Me, Come to Me, Come to Me.”
Nobody talks about it. The last time you nurse your baby. You hear about the “guilt” moms experience when they wean their child, or go back to work. But what you don’t hear about though, is the grief.
The quiet grief of weaning.