Being Emptied , Part I

Sadness swept over me and crushed me like a tsunami a few nights ago. I wanted to take a deep breath and then exhale, hoping it would subside. But the more I tried to squelch it, the harder it slammed against the walls of my spirit. I didn't feel depressed. (I know what that monster feels like.) This was not self-condemning. It wasn't a reaction to traumatic news because I hadn't had any. Sure, all three of my sons had been injured--two seriously--in less than two weeks, but the sadness didn't worsen upon rehearsing those events. I wondered about PMS, but I wasn't irritable. Was I still disappointed that I hadn't seen the 4th of July parade as I had really wanted this year, to salute veterans? A little, but not enough to cry about it! Neither was I "beyond tired" nor did my feet hurt any worse than usual. I didn't think I was angry with anyone (and anger is usually followed by tears with me). There were no tears. Just sadness.

But why? I didn't know, but I wanted to know. It seemed like God was in this moment (and by that I don't mean He's absent from some moments, but most of my crying is from selfishness. This was different.) It felt like this burst of sadness could be a healing of sorts. Cathartic. Redemptive.

I brushed my teeth and went to bed.

"Father God, I am so sad. I just feel like I could cry a river right now and still be sad. Please have mercy. Please help me understand this," I prayed. "If it's just to let out pent-up emotions that I've been storing up, okay, but I don't want to wake up Paul. Or maybe I do. But he wouldn't want to wake up." I sensed this was between God and me, anyway. Not between Paul and me.

At that moment, I sensed the presence of God's Spirit very close. It was a holy moment. If I weren't already barefoot, I would've taken off my shoes.