Before I can pen this post, I have to make an honest confession: For over half a year now, I've been struggling spiritually, overwhelmingly heartbroken, and mourning so heavily that the morning where joy resides seems far too distant from this dear heart. I wish I could tell you a better reason for why my heart is weary or tell of a greater loss that would match the weight of my confession. But I've had to learn that grief is grief. It is not a comparable experience, and no one's grief triumphs over another's. So here's mine... At this time last year, I believed I had arrived at my promised land. Throughout my matriculation in college, I had been in-and-out of friend groups, relentlessly petitioning God for community — a Holy Spirit-filled one where my heart would be taken care of and where I would be safe. Then finally, it happened. And God had outdone Himself. In November of 2019, the fall semester of my junior year of college, I was immersed into a beautiful circle of friendship through mutual campus ministries. I remember being filled with so much gratitude at the crossroads. I'd find myself in tears frequently, harboring so much gratitude for this promise fulfilled. I had the most wonderful birthday too. The eve of my 21st birthday in February 2020, one of my friends surprised me with a birthday cake in my apartment while another braided my hair in my living room for the perfect twist-out. The day of my birthday, I was surrounded by so much love, fellowship, and special communion with Jesus. That season of my life was indescribable. Not to say that I did not appreciate the former years of college, but I had a renewed sense of hope for the latter. I believed there was so much more glory ahead in my final year. I felt that I had so much more to give to my friendships, my community, and my roles at the college. Then, the pandemic made its debut. And everything I had began to know and love was taken away. What I wrote in my last blog post about the early days of the pandemic was true. I enjoyed the stillness and the extra free-time I had on my hands to spend with Jesus. But once June arrived and the spread of COVID-19 wasn't decreasing, something broke in me. I began to think about what a virtual senior year would look like, and just the thought of it made me weep. I just knew that God wouldn't align my life the way He did just to break it apart. A few weeks later, the announcement was made. A virtual senior year was my reality. The morning that the Atlanta University Center announced that SpelHouse Homecoming was cancelled, I remember shutting the doors in my room, closing the blinds, curling up in my bed in a fetus position and endlessly weeping. If my memory serves me correctly, I cried myself to sleep. It was a cloudy, somber Sunday. I don't have much recollection of the day after noon. The announcement of the virtual year came a week later. I had already prepared myself for that heartache. Here's the thing: I had saved participating in a lot of experiences for my senior year, and I had hoped to re-do some experiences that did not go well. And when God gifted me with community, I had a feeling in my gut that my final year would be so supreme, running the final lap with a few of them who hadn't yet graduated. But instead, I moved into my single-bedroom apartment in August. I had imagined those walls being the safe haven where my friends would rest and take refuge. Being a Mississippi native, I know hospitality all too well. I value fellowship and activities alike. But the pandemic robbed me of the chance to create space to do any of that. Instead, my home stood still with no activity roaming within but mine, no laughter heard but my own, and no prayers decreed but the ones I uttered. And oftentimes, my prayers were met with a deep cry that would literally hurt my chest. And the truth is, nothing has changed. I still have my community, but seeing them through a screen is not the ideal way of loving them. I haven't seen most of my friends since before the pandemic, and that grief is unbearable at times. But the greatest grief of all? It's the way this chapter of my life at Spelman is ending. My final year has been spent in complete solitude. During the fall semester in my Atlanta apartment, the only in-person interactions I had were with maintenance and with the cashiers at the grocery store. I spent the remainder of the semester at home with family in Mississippi for the benefit of my mental heath. I find myself asking God this question a lot: "Why would You give me one of the greatest desires of my heart when You knew a pandemic was on the brink of arriving?" I couldn't even enjoy the blessing before it ended. And now I have three months left before I enter Spelman alumnae-hood and I might not even walk across the stage? I might not walk under the sacred Spelman arch? (It's a Spelman tradition!) "What is the reason for all of this suffering, God?" And while I'm trying to remember the God who I sing about — the One who's a man of His word and who promises a hope and a future — I can't break through this grief. It pulls me down. One moment I could be getting dressed on my way to the store listening to the uplifting artistry of Peter Cottontale, and the next moment I cannot stand, too overwhelmed by the grief that just hit me out of no where. The grief unexpectedly hit me today after watching one of my favorite television shows. Today marks the 10 day countdown to my 22nd birthday. I am home in Mississippi with no friends in sight, no plans to celebrate, and no desire to change that narrative. I had originally planned to spend my birthday in my Atlanta apartment safely with friends who would meet me there. But the plans fizzled when the new COVID strain hit, and some didn't feel comfortable traveling with the possibility of bringing something back home to their loved ones. While I completely understood the concern, grief followed. And it was a catastrophic experience. But the experience I had with God in my grief today inspired me to write this blog post. As I was breaking, I heard His voice so clear for this first time in a while. He said, "You need to let that season go. I am The Hope." I have realized that I have put my hope in so many other things. I've put my hope in people and in my institution when all along I needed to grasp that He is the promise. Everything on this earth can fade away, but He is the One who'll remain standing. The promised land wasn't my community or my blessing. The promised land is the place where I become more content and confident in Him. That's what I've been lacking. That's why this season of mourning is so extended. God wants me to reach this promised land by any means necessary, meanwhile I'm holding myself back, not wanting to let the former things pass away. Is God enough to satisfy me? That's the question of the day. People can't satisfy me. Wordly possessions or experiences can't satisfy me neither — only He can. But knowing that doesn't expel the condition of my heart. I am not at the "acceptance" stage in my grief yet. I haven't come upon the dawn of morning. Rather, I'm the little girl still holding onto the small bear while God is holding a bigger one behind Him. You've seen the meme, right? I'm trying to give this grief over to Him, but it's hard when there were so many moments I wanted to see and experience. There still are things I'd like to experience, but the outcome of that is in the hands of those who can fail me. So while I haven't reached day break as of yet, I'll redirect my hope towards Jesus and allow Him to help me find my way in the moonlight. He is my hope. He is my joy. He is my promised land. Scriptures: "Blessed are those who mourn, for they shall be comforted." — Matthew 5:4 "And after you have suffered a little while, the God of all grace, who has called you to his eternal glory in Christ, will himself restore, confirm, strengthen, and establish you." — 1 Peter 5:10 "For I consider that the sufferings of this present time are not worth comparing with the glory that is to be revealed to us." — Romans 8:18 "And we know that for those who love God all things work together for good, for those who are called according to his purpose." — Romans 8:28 "The Lord is near to the brokenhearted and saves the crushed in spirit." —Psalm 34:18 "My flesh and my heart may fail, but God is the strength of my heart and my portion forever." — Psalm 73:26
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