Today in New York it’s wet and chilly, and I couldn’t be happier about that. It’s one of the better days for wordsmithing; without the satisfaction of sunshine, creativity is cornered and squeezed out.Β  It’s one of the better days for my introvert; everyone is forced to slow down, to hunker down, and to play with inside voices until the world dries off.

Thing’s outside and inside have been unsteady lately. 30 degree highs followed by 82 degree days. Happy days followed by trauma-stricken depressed days. Finger-freezing mornings followed by sunny, warm afternoons. After the panic sets in like clock work at 11:30p, I can usually sleep through the night. The heat in our apartment is on and off and on and off, and I’m glad I didn’t put my winter clothes away yet. Yesterday I panicked and cried when I got blood drawn for my physical. Not out of fear–I love giving blood–I lost sanity with what must have just been left over emotions. And after I dried my face and relaxed my muscles and settled my heart beat, I went down to Ikea to pick up the bookshelves I couldn’t carry, the bookshelves that are the birthday present one month-early because my husband is too kind to make me wait. Up and down, hot and cold, weepsy and peaceful; all in the same day every day. Today in New York I try to remember that I’m not sick–I’m just hurt. And like my previous traumatic injuries (the ones my ankles remember) I have to take it one day in New York at a time.

Yesterday in New York, we stayed up late with a friend. She came because we hurt alike and stayed for Ikea Meatballs. She stayed later to help my panic while Ted was out late. At his return, he replenished our white russians and we laughed until early morning came on the clock. Laughter is a rare for the two of us girls. The two of us with our lingering pain and compiling wounds. A lot of those wounds from fellow laborers, from fellow followers of Jesus. Which makes me angry and it makes me wonder:

Why is it that Christians are the least able to sit in pain and sin? Why must we sling bible verses and pointed prayers at the silent tears of friends-who-became-projects-somewhere-along-the-way? Why are we afraid to sit still beside the grieving and the writhing in pain? Why is eradicating death and pain and sin–the enemies that Jesus defeated between the cross and the empty tomb–something we think we must do ourselves?

Shouldn’t we be more afraid that we aren’t communicating the unconditional love and grace of our God.

Shouldn’t we be less afraid of the power of sin?

Shouldn’t we be more afraid of not knowing the heart of Jesus?

Shouldn’t we be less afraid of not seeing miracles?

Today in New York I’m cuddled with my tea and leg warmers by the drafty front window. I’m sifting through thousands of Christians’ thoughts on work and calling. Today in New York I hope to go a full day without an episode of weepsy, blinding pain. Today in New York I hope that our God will stick up for himself and answer the questions borne in pain that her Christian friends have failed to hear her ask. And tonight in New York Ted and I will assemble my bookshelves and sip our whiskey and eat our date-night steaks and ignore tomorrow until it comes.