Today, I found her seated on the floor, wetness on her face.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I am surprised she even let me see her in that way. It\u2019s not like her.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Though I often hear her through my walls sobbing at night, every morning she walks out of her room, eyes dry as the Savannah.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Of course, it is only because I run into her room without knocking!<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I had found some good news, or so I thought. Some good news to share with her. Unlike her, I shared too much.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
She had learned to share as little as possible. She is always doing well. I could not fault her.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
The closed doors had been many, too many. The conversations that ended with promises but only became extended conversations with others she had never given permission for.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
For now, she had learned it was only God whose care was assured.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Why bother? she would mutter. They can\u2019t help me anyway.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
So she kept it all stored up inside and prayed as hard and cried as hard as she could on those hard floors.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Childhood had taught her to tell her silly stories to herself only. Now she wondered who would listen? Even to the serious ones?<\/p>\n\n\n\n
They call her strong because those burdens are not shared. None willing to, not even me.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
She turns her face away from me.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
When she turns back, her face is dry, and her eyes tell me to pretend I walked into a darkened room.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Even good news needs good timing, so I decide to keep it stored inside too.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
So I leave, closing the door.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
She doesn\u2019t call me back or come after me.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
That\u2019s good.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Otherwise, she would find me behind her door, hoping to hear what she so hides away from the world and only tells God.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"