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Cry

A Writing Prompt

By D. E. MorrisPublished 3 years ago 3 min read
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I’m angry.

I’m so angry.

I’m so angry that I want to scream, tear at my skin, break things.

But all I can do is sit here and cry.

For so long I have blamed You for everything I’ve been through, everything You allowed in my life. How could You let a child endure so much? How could You watch as she was broken and betrayed, not by strangers, but by the very people who were supposed to protect her and keep her? How could You do nothing when she cried out to You for help, when she begged for Your promised deliverance? When she thought about ending her own life?

What must it have been like to sit where You do, know what You know, and see what You see? In my youth, I chose to believe You didn’t care. Every tear that ran down my face was another reminder of how much I did not matter. Not to You, not to anyone I should have mattered to for all the right reasons. My only significance was to bear the brunt of someone else’s burdens or to save those who didn’t even know they were in danger. It was me, my job, my life. And You didn’t care enough to step in and stop it. To be my promised Savior. You just sat there, and you watched.

As I grew older, my anger turned into bitter resentment, even when I turned back to You. I grew in my understanding of Your love and compassion, and I clung to that, using it as a shield to hide all my turmoil behind. Because deep down, I still felt like You left me. You let me down. By not stopping the hands that hurt me, You hurt me the most. More than any word, any action, any touch.

I sit here and I cry because I now know You were there. I can see it by looking at a horrible situation and seeing how You kept it from being any worse than it was. I know You were holding my hand when I was hurting and I was so afraid. I cry because I understand now just how much you love me and how much it hurt you to let me go through those things. And I cry because I spent so many years wrapped up in my anger and my pride, years that I could have spent with You.

I still don’t know why You allowed me to live the life I have, but I no longer feel like I have to know. There’s this understanding deep down that someday You’ll show me and I’ll finally see the whole picture. I won’t be staring at the backside of Your tapestry where all the colors are mixed together, loose threads hanging everywhere, knots cluttering and everything is just ugly. I’ll finally get the see the beautiful masterpiece that You’ve been looking at this entire time.

And because it’s just what I do, I’ll cry.

trauma
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