Psalm 56:8

She keeps my tears in Her bottle –

And this is sacred. I think about this old verse a lot, about how there is a God who cares so intimately about my life that every single tear I have ever cried is on Her altar, that She knows every tear I will cry …

In the Bible, the verse is written by a man about a God who numbers his wanderings and keeps him in His book. A man who became a king, from nothing. How many tears did David cry? Did he ever give up, when his eyes ran dry? What did his God’s voice sound like?

My bottle is crystalline, and it is full. I woke up with tears in my chest this morning, felt them welling up with each drumbeat of my heart, stood by the window as the coffee brewed and let them fall in cascades down my cheeks. I imagine they sparkled in the morning light. I wiped them away when my son’s precious voice asked for French toast, and I hoped he didn’t see them . . .

Most of my tears have fallen like this. In silence, in rivers, while forcing my face toward the light. It is incredibly lonely to be so sad, to want so much, to write and scream poetry into the wind –

and I wonder what it is all worth, in the end. What will it all be worth? Whose poetry is True, and when?