I grew up on the coast.

Foggy mornings giving way to sunny days giving way to foggy nights. There is something breathtaking about standing on the shore in the dark as the beach fog rolls in. You can’t see and your eyes burn with the cold and the crisp air. You learn to see through — through foggy sky and burning eyes. 

I tiptoe through my days now, praying with every breath, praying with every stitch I knit. I watch jays fly overhead and I stand in the chill of night while rain beats down. I take in every glowing star, delighting in each night’s moon, refusing to take anything for granted. Just as I couldn’t see well through the beach fog and the burning eyes, I can’t see straight sometimes when the tears cloud my green eyes. But it’s okay because the tears don’t fall, they sit there as a reminder that there is Something Greater than all of this and I don’t need to see. I don’t. I just need to remember there is Someone Greater.  

I spend a day heartbroken over the darkness — a friend’s mother dies from cancer just a few weeks after they learn it is consuming her; a broken system lets the killer of a loving father and husband off because of a badge, again; precious children shot and killed in school; darkness and turmoil just rage and people can’t hear past the pain and there is hate and hurt and where is hope? As the moon rises gloriously, once again, hope creeps in with phone calls — a dear friend’s beautiful engagement after divorce, and the birth of new life to a friend. I rejoice and I mourn and I wonder how to keep going when things don’t make sense. Yet, it’s the tears and the cloudiness that remind me:

I don’t need to see; I just need to remember there is Something Greater.  

I reach out to one of the wisest voices I know, begging for something, some insight, something to make the heartache lessen. I find truth in her words: “I think in some ways, that’s our job here — to mourn with those who mourn and keep being witnesses to the suffering.”

I witness. I do. I witness the pain, the suffering, the hurt. I witness the darkness while I hold my candle, flame aglow, this little bit of light. Yes, this little bit of light is the Light and I will hold it while you cry and I will cry with you, not letting this Light go out. And together we will walk. We will walk through your darkness and in your pain. We will walk and the Light will shine even when we are consumed. 

My wise friend speaks more to my weary heart. “Maybe this is where we find real humility, Amy, in this heartbroken place, knowing we can do nothing but pray and love?”

I hear the cries, the pain, the anger and I can do nothing, nothing, but pray and love. I want someone who can do something to hear their cries, to hear me. The only Someone who can do anything does hear them, does hear me.

Clouded, teary, burning eyes don’t need to see; we just remember Something Greater hears us. He hears us and He weeps with us. Oh, He weeps. The Light, shining in this darkness, weeping for our pain. And He will wipe our tears. He will bring vision and light once again. A little bit peeks through — life, love, marriage, birth.

He is here in the midst. Pray and love. Pray and love. There is comfort to be found. 

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