Tears in a Bottle

During my second consecutive sleepless night I walked to the kitchen, toasted a slice of rye bread, and brewed a cup of herb tea, hoping comfort food would help me drift off before the alarm rang. I had a full day ahead but no energy to meet it. Exhaustion made me less stable and emotions took over. I thought about lack of employment and book manuscripts sitting somewhere on editors’ desks awaiting judgment; tears threatened.

“I just want something good to happen,” I spoke aloud to a God I hoped was listening. A job. An encouraging word from an editor. A place to make into a home. Sleep.

God wasn’t speaking. If she were, I imagined she would say that good things are happening: I have the blessing of time with my father to experience not only his aging, but also his bursts of humor and conversation. Students are excited about my class: “I can’t believe I am coming to a school where I can write papers about things that are really important to me,” one said as he left last week.

I began a mental list of “good things,” but it didn’t help. My heart was “on the ground,” and I couldn’t pick it up. As tears fell I remembered verses from Psalm 56’s lament: God takes note of my trials, my tossing and turning. God saves my tears in a bottle. Like a good mother, she knows when it was best to be still and hold her distraught daughter, letting the warmth and security of constant love give comfort words could not give.

Eventually I did fall asleep. I didn’t get enough, though, and dismissed class early the next night. I walked slowly to my car rolling behind me the small carry-on that held my computer, text books, notes and papers. At home I lugged the heavy suitcase upstairs and got ready for bed. I doubted I would need any help falling to sleep, and pulling the sheet up to my chin I smiled a sleepy smile. Someone cared enough to put my tears in a bottle.