weary – adjective\ˈwir-ē\
: lacking strength, energy, or freshness because of a need for rest or sleep
: bored or annoyed by something because you have seen it, heard it, done it, etc., many times or for a long time
: causing you to feel tired
This morning I took Grace to the eye doctor, an appointment rescheduled because we forgot an earlier one in life’s flurry–in spite of a reminder.
Her eyes have changed a bit for the worse. Not much. But enough that she needs new lenses to help her see.
I still need to reschedule my own forgotten cardiology appointment, and my mammogram. And I hope I don’t forget more things I’m supposed to do or places I’m supposed to be.
When I got home, I turned to the news. Jim Foley’s parents were speaking, and I dissolved into tears right there at the kitchen counter.
He’d been a prisoner for almost two years. I’d never heard of him. He was a son, an uncle, a brother. A writer.
I am so weary.
So weary of trying to keep up with the everyday of my own life and exhausted with the world’s chaos and cruelty.
Horrified at the brutality of this man’s death, beheaded–with a knife,they say–and now the threat of another journalist who may face the same end.
I can hardly bear it.
I’m getting emails and messages from friends who are also overcome with the news of the last couple weeks. “Please pray,” they beg.
We are all undone.
Saturated with sadness.
A reporter asked the Foleys how they were finding their strength. “We’re in the moment,” they said. They went on to affirm courage in prayer cover.
They told of a son who “found my passion.” Who, his mother said, was compelled to tell the stories of those who suffered. Who, she said, was moved with compassion for others and often held his younger cell mates close when they lost their own strength.
He “gave his life trying to expose the world to the suffering of the Syrian people,” she wrote.
I am so weary.
So weary of the divisions and the suffering, heartbroken over the hate and anger and judgement, tired of the talking heads, paralyzed with all the pain and brokenness. I’m frustrated over my inability to do something–and that I don’t even want to know about any of it.
Last night I dreamed I floated with others on a big, round plate in the sky. The clouds gathered and swirled around us, spinning faster and faster. Someone slipped through the barrier that surrounded the platform’s edge and fell. A stiffish, dirty cotton ball swallowed me, and I could no longer see.
God, give me new lenses to see the world lit differently and the compassion to keep caring. Keep numbness far from me.
But for now I just want to sit in silence, to be in the moment. I want to go among the trees and let all this stirring settle, to find a place where hate won’t grow. I need you to remind me you’re still in control of a world that seems to be spinning out of control.
I want to make the grand girls spaghetti and laugh at the dogs and watch the corn tassels dance and eat watermelon and find animals in the clouds and watch my Tigers win a game.
But in this moment, God…
I am so weary.
In the stillness,
Linking with Charity and Jennifer