Ministering to myself often feels like crying. Like hopelessness. I sit in the dark, forgotten corner, amongst the washing, and mourn. I mourn for all that is not, for all that I have lost and for all that I have known. I acknowledge the darkness of the world, of my experience. And for a time I feel like I can’t go on, I feel as though everything is too much.
But then, after a time, I arise, tears fresh on my cheeks, but now dry, unseen. And I go back to my children, to my husband, to my dog, to the land of the living. I take with me a bleeding heart, an open heart; I feel raw, unsteady, skinless. But I take with me also something new, something fresh: hope. Having yielded to my pain, my eyes can now look beyond me again, they begin to look outwards once again, to them. Not healed, still broken, but with something now to give.