Sunday.

I cried on Sunday. 

Tears dripped off my chin as I sniffled quietly, listening to the pastor's message.

Then I fled, 

Pulling up my hood to shelter my tears, 

To the ladies' room.

Sobs shook my chest and my lungs caught, unsure if air was still welcome. I looked at my wet eyes and something crumbled inside of me, trying to hide itself back into the tight ball shattered by that short sentence: 

"We need to go headfirst into the darkness."

I'm not sure I can describe the ripping, the tearing these words caused, still cause, something deep within me grieving. 

I remember that burden, that burning desire to walk into the pain, the brokenness, the darkness, the hopelessness, the torrent of lives untouched by the church, something inside me screams. I remember it, and I went, and I broke. "He won't ask you to do more than you can handle," said the pastor, encouraging the congregation to step out in faith. But He does. He asks for more than we can give, offers more than we can carry. How else will we know we are weak? 

I wasn't weak, I was strong.

There is a certain high you get from succeeding, from doing well. 

That is gone now. 

"Darkness cannot drive out darkness, only light can do that. Hate cannot drive out hate, only love can do that."

Martin Luther King Jr. said that. We just celebrated his legacy and his memory.

But he died. 

I have died, too. 

Hate ended his life. Inspired by his words, I offered love, yet hate screamed so loudly all around me. I grew hoarse. My breath, gone. A passionate, living part of me has died. The light no longer enough for any more than myself. And my world, oh, blessed relief, has shrunk to just me. And my husband. I no longer fight to offer love. My role is just to be loved.  

Faces still haunt me. Voices echo in stillness and solitude. I dream about them. The ones I loved well. The ones I failed. Their vibrant joys and violent pains. 

I step back to let someone else fight in the darkness. Someone else shine. 

When Pastor Z called the church to step out intentionally in love, as Christ did in Matthew Four, I wanted to shout back. 

But I honestly don't know what I would shout.

A warning? "Don't do it. It hurts!" 

A retort? "I have, and I can't go any further. Let me rest!"

An agreement? "Yes! Please! Everyone, join the ranks, let's bathe this world in Christ's light!"

I've been reading the book of Job, and find deep comfort there. This man sees the injustice in the world. Has fought to love the broken, stood strong in his service to God, yet is now brought low. Steeped in misery, everything stripped from him, he asks God, Why? What did I do wrong?  

We need space to feel this. To say this. To not jump straight to celebration and ignore the pain. 

So please, join in with Pastor Z and MLK and fight the darkness, with the gospel, with love, with social awareness and justice - but don't ask me to join you. I don't have any more love to give. I am learning to simply be loved. And to keep crying.