I’m not particularly good at lament, but I’m learning that it is a helpful spiritual discipline. Aubrey Sampson suggests all laments lead to the truest form of worship-the worship of God alone. “Not God and blessings, not God and benefits, but God for God’s sake. “ The Louder Song
On this cold March morning, my bones lament.  I can’t tell if it’s the fibromyalgia or sadness again settling in. Perhaps a cocktail of both. 
I wish my heart was frozen, unable to feel absence. I long to be held; my bones cry out for touch. 
How long, oh Lord?
Yesterday, I reached my hand out into the empty space next to me in the pew. I used to do so in the early months of grief and I almost felt the warmth of my mate’s grasp. Not yesterday...just air. 
How long, oh Lord?
I know You carry me until the hairs of my head turn white with age. I just can’t feel your Presence, only ache...deep ache. 
Yet, I trust.

Lament

Yesterday...we all were looking for love, some in red envelopes, others in the ash.
I was busy spreading joy in my own corner of the world because living without my valentine is unbearable unless I choose to reach beyond the pain and love others.
While weaving valentine deliveries amidst the mundane, I was unaware that students and educators huddled in closets, texting their families frantic heart cries. Some their last.
Like many, I ended the day in sorrow. Once again, a senseless shooting shattered our peace.
This morning, questions lay unanswered.

Why God? Why does this have to happen over and over, especially to our children?

I want to huddle myself, hide from another tragedy.

How many can one personalize?

The usual indictments and solutions cover the airwaves this morning, yet, again, they fall short.

Where do I run when I can't find the answers?

Where do I run when the talking heads leave me weary?

I lift my eyes up to the hills, to my Maker.  Not for answers or solutions, but for help. Help to continue to feel the pain of others, help to continue to spread joy amidst the ashes. 

Chris Martin echoes: Still I always look up to the sky; pray before the dawn. 

I sit in the ashes of sorrow and look up!  To the only One who can heal the brokenness, who can keep us from evil. 

I enter this Lenten season looking up, praying before the dawn and into the night—laying bare my life to the One who keeps it. I pour out my sorrow for being part of the broken. Today, I don't seek answers; I seek the Answer.