A broken heart is a funny thing.
The one thing you are unprepared to deal with is the anger. It is an emotion that surfaces every now and again, when the grief is spent. It is an emotion that surfaces every now and again, when the emptiness feels numb. It is an emotion that surfaces every now and again, when the fire burns too hot.
And you try and remind yourself that it isn’t good to be angry. You try and remind yourself that it isn’t very Christlike. But still you feel the anger. Because it is part of it. And there are too many unanswered questions. Too many unsolved mysteries. Too much that doesn’t make sense.
For a moment the anger makes your heart beat.
And you wish they didn’t have this kind of power over you. You wish you could push it away the way you think they are. You wish it didn’t hurt so much that you think you’ll fall apart any second. You wish all sorts of things you’ll have to repent for later.
You say all sorts of things to the people who have held your hand since it happened. And rather than cry in the grief, you cry in the anger. You clench your fists as the tears pour down your face. Your entire body is rigid in anger. And you ask all sorts of questions. And you add endless amounts of people to the line of those who are more angry than you.
The anger makes your heart beat.
You wonder how they could be so selfish. Why your own thoughts, feelings, or the answers you’d gotten didn’t matter when it came right down to it. Why it wasn’t a mutual decision at all, like big ones are supposed to be. Why it was only ever about what you wanted when they finally felt like agreeing. Why nothing you said mattered at all. And if it did matter, then there aren’t enough explanations.
You wonder why they told you that none of it had been a lie when they first called. But something was. Either you know them as well as you do, or you never knew them. Either it was all a lie, or there is more than what they’re telling you. And if so, the selfishness continues. The cowardice. Run away instead of talking it out. Run away instead of answering the questions. Run away instead of being faithful to the answer you said you got. Run away instead of fixing the chasm you created inside the person you professed to love.
The anger makes you hope they are suffering just as much. Or more.
The anger makes all sorts of things surface. It reminds you that love is all at once the most complicated thing in the world, and the most black and white. It only has to be as complicated as you make it. It only has to be as scary as you let it. But then the world gets in the way. And fear gets in the way. And dark things you don’t understand get in the way.
And they tell you all sorts of things, the people in the angry line. Most of them tell you to close the door and run as fast as you can. Some of them tell you that you’re being too kind, too nice. That you were too good. Cliche things. But you don’t believe those things, because you feel so angry. So angry you could scream. But your soul has been screaming for weeks.
But the last few days are the first ones in which the anger makes you see red.
Your friends take you to the restaurant, and you see those people. And you pretend you don’t know them: the couple that was so happy for you. You try not to panic. And you try to hide the fact that you’re shaking, and that you can’t breathe. Because he is your server, and looking at him is a strange torture. And his eyes have a question in them you can’t answer. Because you don’t have the answers.
You are angry about everything. Every moment you were stupidly happy. Every moment when it felt more right than anything ever had. Every moment when it was so clear that it was the only thing that made sense. Even the hard moments that turned out better, because it couldn’t happen again. The list of things that happened to make it work out, and that pointed to it being right is one hundred miles long. It makes you livid.
More than anything, there is something else that fuels the anger to white hot.
And it is the fact that underneath it all, you aren’t angry. Not even a little bit. Not at all. Because the infuriatingly patient, loving, forgiving, and understanding slice of your heart is more stubborn than you’ll ever be. And that slice of your heart is praying and waiting and praying more, and whispering good things in your ear when you wake up in the middle of night because you had a dream.
And you aren’t really angry, only temporarily so, because there is a foolish hope in your heart. And you aren’t really angry, because even though you wish it wasn’t the case you’re still sending out love and prayers. And you aren’t really angry, because as soon as you’re done crying God always fills your heart will a mountain of peace and promise.
But for a moment you’re angrier than you’ve ever been.
And somehow your heart keeps beating.