• There she stood, shrouded in black, before the coffin. It was nothing special, simply a wooden box. But inside….

    She greeted the family. Each tear that glistened on each cheek threatened to break her down, but she remained emotionless, though the lump steadily growing in her throat felt as if it would choke her. The pastor said a few words. She gathered up her small bouquet and prepared to say her last goodbye. As she laid the flowers on top, she gently touched the wood, and her hand lingered there for a moment. Her mind couldn’t convince her heart that he was really in there, that they would never laugh and smile together, ever again. But how dare she feel sad! She pushed the grief down even more. She didn’t even know him very well! Although they were family, she hadn’t seen him in years! She had no right to cry, not in front of his brothers, his sisters, his parents. The guilt outweighed the pain and so her composure held.

    But eventually the pain grew so that it outweighed everything else. And each time it got worse, so did the guilt. She hated herself more and more because she believed that it wasn’t her place to feel the way she felt. She despised herself and her uncooperative emotions. Yet still she didn’t cry. She couldn’t concentrate on anything. Finally, it got so bad that she began to feel physical pain, like a weight, a pressure inside her chest that wouldn’t subside. It got to the point where she didn’t care—all she wanted was to cry. She cried out to God, begged him for release. He gave none. She tried sad books, movies, music, nothing.

    The suicide, the funeral that started it all got her thinking about death. How happy people must be who no longer live. She wondered what it would be like….

    One night, she couldn’t bear it any longer. She found a knife and slowly, carefully, cut. Nothing serious, just enough to see the blood and feel the hurt, but it was enough. With each incision her self-hate grew. She hated what she was becoming but was powerless to turn around. God—who was he? She started doubting that he was ever real. Within weeks, she watched her life, her world, fall apart. But she didn’t shed a single tear.

    In a final act of total desperation, she poured her heart, her mind, her soul out to this nonexistent God. Her resilience failing, she crumpled onto the bed. And then she felt it. In that last moment of utter despair, she was aware of a gentle touch, a voice like a cool night breeze blowing off of the sea, Be still, Beloved. I am with you. With the warm touch of her creator, her lover, her father, came revelation. And slowly, quietly, the tears came. She began to cry, tears of relief, joy, release. She cried, and the broken pieces of her shattered life began to mend. And she caught a glimpse, small though it was, of hope.