Day 11

What does it mean to follow the voice of the Lord into something—to learn to trust and be vulnerable as I never was before, to open my heart to love—only to hear that same voice suddenly thunder so clearly to get out?

I’m not sure yet. All I know is that twelve days ago I was engaged and now I’m not. Now I’m caught in a numbing daze, grasping for small moments of normalcy, setting goals of making it through each day, falling into bed exhausted and hoping I can sleep. It was my choice—to unengaged myself—and I’m not sure which would be harder, to be on the receiving end of a severing decision over which I had no control or to willingly amputate a part of myself because I knew it was the healthier decision long-term but hurts the dickens in the meantime.

I’m full of questions, ones that make me alternate between not wanting to trust myself and not wanting to trust God. And I’ve entered a wilderness of grief, one I’m tentative to acknowledge, like I’m walking through a desert but in denial of the fact that I’m thirsty. My heart has shut down to protect itself and the well of tears I know must be buried layers down merely bubble up to brush the surface at unexpected moments. Sometimes the word grief seems so serious and somber, something that my pain does not deserve. Nobody died. There are worse fates than having to give back a ring. And yet for my brain this equals trauma. Those close to me assure me it is right to grieve. It like death—death of a relationship, a future, a dream. I had to learn to surrender to self as I walked into this relationship, and now I have to learn a new kind of surrender as I walk away and let go.

So here I am single again. Some moments I feel relieved and more like myself. I blink looking at the past eight months and wonder was it all a dream? But so many other moments I know that can’t be true and the weight of it settles within me, making it hard to get out of bed in the morning, find clean clothes that match, be motivated to eat, or muster up words in prayer. My prayers are more like aches and muttered tears, inward pleas for the Lord to come be near while simultaneously keeping Him at length for fear of what He might say.

I find I need to rediscover what it means to be myself, to do things I enjoy. That means I need to write. Some days (maybe more than not) it’s going to be hard and I’ll want to curl up in bed and put it off, but I know it will be good. I’m not ready to tackle the reshaping of a novel, but I can put words down to help me process. They might be raw and uncensored, but they’ll be real and honest. I pray they’ll help me navigate through this wilderness to look back and see God’s severe mercy upon my life.