It was then that the awkward silence broke into tears. Falling down, each more quickly than the next. And we didn’t know what to say.
It was the kind of crying where the words are sputtered out in that high squeaky voice, coupled with gasps of breath and indistinguishable other sounds. I think us girls have this in common; this way of crying, that is. We’re funny like that. It’s our way.
It is also our way to grow in strength through weakness. With her tears, came our own. Hurting together. And the quiet tears mingled with whispers of pain and praise. One by one, into rich soil together, holding our hands and bowing our heads.
Somehow, treasure in the transparent. Vulnerability. Depth. Humility to surrender. Honesty that you’re hurting. That you have to reach outside of yourself to find hope, wake up in the morning, get through another day.
These are the fields of dandelions. Growing together towards the sun. Scattering beauty and learning to die. Finding life in the dirt. Even because of it.
Blessed are those who mourn, for they will be comforted. Believing this with all that I am.