Lost Joy
“Lift up your head,” they say—
but why should I?
I carry too much weight,
and my neck is tired
from holding myself upright.
I have waited for a day
better than this one,
a day where heartache loosens its grip.
Sometimes I wonder
if some of us are born only to endure.
Did I miss my chance at freedom
by loving what did not matter?
Why lift my head
when I cry alone at night?
Why wear joy
when it does not live inside me?
I know my time will come—
a time when laughter returns.
Then I will be strong enough
to pull someone from the pit.
But now I stare at my open wound,
unsure what to do with it.
I sit with it.
I wait.
I long for comfort.
And I see my God.
I watch Him move in my life,
yet I do not know how to come close.
I pray.
I sing.
I ask questions.
He answers—
but I ache for a deeper healing,
one that reaches the most painful place in my soul.
Each time I approach Him,
I pretend I am whole,
as if He cannot see
the lost child in me
waiting to be lifted.
When He sits beside me,
I know He listens.
And every wound—
even this one—
will heal
for a greater purpose.
S