I turned the doorknob with the precision of a safe cracker and closed their bedroom door. There couldn’t be so much as a click-clack to wake any of my five napping kiddos. I was too tired. Tired of meeting needs and feeling needy. Tired of being a grump and dealing with grumpy kids. Tired of trying so hard to be a faithful example and failing so often. Tired of praying for things to get better while circumstances remained unchanged.
I tiptoed over squeaky floorboards toward my living room and accidentally kicked a mound of unmatched socks. Books I meant to read were piled on my side table. My Bible laid opened on the ottoman, with red pen scribbled across the 91st Psalm and a three-year-old’s signature scrawled over the footnotes.
Collapsing in my armchair, I began to cry. Not loudly, of course. I didn’t want to wake the nappers, which made the shoulder-shaking, headache-inducing cry that much more miserable. My overwhelming fatigue required release, but it had to be silent if I wanted to “have my cry” all alone. And I did.