Am I brave enough to live, really live?

At church today during worship, my mind flashed back to the Sundays we were there right after we returned from France. Nearly every musical portion of the worship, I wept. Deep, gut wrenching, heaving sobs. It felt like terror and cleansing and hope all wrapped up in one knotty tangle of string. To say I was a mess during that time would be an amusing understatement.

So today I’m thinking about all that grief, all those tears. I told Jesus, “You know, I’m pretty good at grieving.”

I wonder if He smiled at my naive declaration. Or shook His head.

In His very quiet, convicting voice, He whispered in my ear, “Yes, you are good at grieving. But are you brave enough to live?”

His words have stayed with me all day. I’ve spent a lifetime grieving the past. I’m good at it. I should teach grief classes. I could be one of those professional mourners, those wailing folks at processional funerals. I know how to get the pain OUT there. Loud and deep.

But then what?

Life. Sweet life.

And wouldn’t you know it? This is the verse that rung in my head when I woke up this morning:

“For in Him we live and move and exist, as even some of your own poets have said, ‘For we also are His children” (Acts 17:28)

I live. I move. I exist. All by Him. As His empowered child.

I grieve well. It’s true.

And now it’s time to live, really live.

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