Weighted

I have never been in a season of life in which there was so much sorrow. So much sickness. So much heaviness of life.

Thursday night at a vocal ensemble rehearsal, someone mentioned that it’s just that the church is big, my circle is bigger, there’s more information floating around. I think there’s some truth to that.

I am thinking this thought:  I am 47 years old. We all come to a time when those around us start to fall sick. We get older, the odds get slimmer. Maybe it’s just time.

But that’s not all it is. I just don’t think that’s the case. It is somehow so much more intimate.

And I am also thinking this thought: Perhaps I am at a time in my life when I truly understand what it means to love. I have landed in a safe place, I have quit playing games and wearing masks, and maybe this is the trade-off for honesty and authenticity. Sometimes, it hurts.

The circle of life and death, of illness and pain, of sorrow – it seems to be drawing closer. Everywhere I look, whatever direction, I see someone I love who is hurting, and not for some minor reason. Over something big, life-changing, seismic.

This is so not about me. It’s about others who are walking much closer to the flame than I. Yet I’m called to walk alongside, and it’s part of the fellowship to bear one another’s burdens.

I don’t really have anything more to say than this. Just putting it on the table.

Sorrow is heavy.

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