Linen Closet Moments

When I was little and had an "achy heart," I would sneak away, very quietly up the stairs. If I was really, truly good at sneaking, I could ease open our creaky linen closet door, and slip in under the lowest shelf, shutting the door behind me. Even when I was little, I could only fit if I pulled my knees up under my chin and scrunched into the back corner. One sliver of light would leak through, but aside from that, darkness would reign. I could take deep breaths of the fabric softener scent that filled the air. Or I could cry. I usually cried.

I'm twenty-three years old, but even now, there are "achy heart" moments. Moments when the skin around my eyes tightens to hold back tears. Moments when my hands start shaking and I have trouble breathing. Moments when my heart aches and my vision constricts to the narrow focus of me- my world, my problems.

In those moments I still want that dark, back corner. Blackness with only a sliver of light. I want to curl up and cry with my head on my knees. Cry until I can cry no longer.

But I've found that life doesn't always provide those linen closets when you need them. Sometimes you have to keep walking in the glaring daylight when you want the darkness. You have to lift your chin when you want to bury it in your knees. You have to smile when you want to cuddle with the towels. Sometimes you even have to laugh.

Easter Sunday has always been a dawn of incredible joy for me. Since I was small, my dearest mother has striven to impress upon me the wonderful hallelujah that is the morning of our Christ's resurrection. All the way to church, we would sing "Here the bells ringing, they're singing that we can be born again!" Family would pour in from all corners (complete with ham and stuffed candy eggs), laughing and shouting. Easter was a day of glorious triumph! Of rejoicing! Of joy!

But this Easter Sunday, I stood- raw and quivering, hoping that a smile and a nod would convince others (and myself) that I truly was rejoicing- I only wanted my linen closet. But God, in His gracious, unfathomable wisdom, did not ordain that it be a linen closet Sunday. Linen closets are not always where you see the power of God.

"My God's enough" was a phrase that would not have been murmured in the linen closet. But that day it was repeated silently in my thoughts.

Please don't misconstrue what I'm saying. Tying these feelings- the craving for my fabric softener scented haven, and being unarguably close to the brink of tears for the majority of Easter Sunday- to any particular recent incident in my life would be an erroneous assumption. (Though doubtless, some will assume regardless of this disclaimer.) There are just days when life has whipped through all the armor and nipped at the flesh underneath. And while it is tempting to retreat to a physical refuge, I was forced, on this brilliant Easter to retreat to a stronger, better Refuge.

My God's enough.

And He died, so I could approach Him without reserve on those scary, "achy heart" days.

Which is wonderful, because sometimes the only linen closet to be found is too small to squeeze into.