A big, empty space.

Last night I found myself sobbing in bed...again. I don't like to admit too often that I have feelings. I've come to believe over the years that my feelings, if expressed openly to another person, become tangible burdens. I can remember times when I felt overwhelmed by grief, unable to move with it, ticking off a list of names in my head, people who I might call and commiserate with, people who might be able to help, and nixing each candidate, fearing that I would be seen as a nuisance or a faker. I've come to believe that somehow my feelings aren't valid feelings, that I'm even fooling myself when I feel, when I cry, that I'm soliciting undeserved sympathy from myself.

I cry at movies. I cry when I watch the news. Crying for other people, even fictional people, is acceptable. Crying for myself is selfish.

True. Because I have so much.

False. Because I'm only human.

We can have water pouring from rocks in the desert. Bread falling from rain clouds. But it's never enough. Does God understand that? Is he accepting of that?

I apologize continuously to God. How wrong of me to feel alone or feel sadness when I have so many wonderful things in my life.

Any, yet, I'm only human. I'm only a little thing myself. I need to feel. I get tired. I muscle through every day. I try. I work and work, and I try. And what I want sometimes is just someone to put a hand on my shoulder and say, "Rest." Or to say, "You've done a good job." Or just to put a hand on my shoulder and not say anything at all. Just to reassure me that I'm not doing this alone forever.

And, I know, God is there. I believe that. I sense that. But I still want a hand here. One that I can see and feel. One that holds me up. It's selfish, but I'm only human. I'm nothing special or different from anyone else. I need and want the same things, and I get tired in the same way.