At church, during a weekly prayer meeting . . . we all come, and we all are equally in need of God’s mercy. Some, though, are able to express their inner anguish more openly, crying out, wailing before God for deliverance. To the untrained ear, they almost seem like the hired mourners of Jesus’ day . . . but I know the truth–their wailing makes them free in a way that I will never be.

my own need for mercy is at least as great as theirs . . . and yet, I wonder if God hears my own silent screams, and whether He can hold my tears in a jar if those tears refuse to fall. Amidst the clamor of those who are not ashamed of their need, who come before God with no pretense, is there a place for me? Can I be heard?

It is the same in that other place . . . I watch with envy as those who are more free with their brokenness demand the care that they need. My own need is no less pressing than theirs, but because I do not shout it from the rooftops, I am passed over, left to my own devices. Perhaps I am seen as less difficult, one of the “easy” ones, maybe even a pleasure to work with . . . and yet, I have to wonder if they can hear what I’m not saying, if they can comfort one who cannot weep. And I ache beyond words with a need that I fear will never be met. Here, too, there seems to be no place for me, and again, as big and as loud as I may seem to be, I know that what I cannot speak will not be heard.