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"Ma'am, can I help you?" the saleswoman asked, walking toward me.

I'd gone to a card shop during my lunch hour to find a simple thank-you card. But I felt myself becoming tense as I circled row after row of romantic thinking-of-you cards. Wedding cards. Baby cards. Baby-I-was-thinking-about-our-wedding cards.

I took a deep breath and stepped around another display, feeling unsettled by the candle-scented, pastel-laden tranquility of the shop. Even the gentle music piping in from the speakers above had a less-than-calming effect.

When the saleswoman repeated her question, I wanted to snarl, "I don't know. Can you help me?"

As I followed her to the section I'd been looking for, I realized why a shopping experience I usually enjoy was so painful that particular day. Most days, I'm cheerfully single. But seeing all those romantic cards reminded me of the husband and children I don't yet have, and of the romance that hasn't been part of my life since I made the tough choice more than a year ago to end an incompatible relationship with a man I loved.

I swallowed and breathed a quick prayer: Lord, I'm having a moment of grief. Being here today reminds me of my pain. But you know what it's like to hurt, and so I don't want to hide this from you. You're the healer of brokenness; please look at this pain today and continue to heal my heart.

My solo journey has been full of spiritual lessons. But the most significant so far has involved waiting—not waiting for Mr. Right, but waiting to heal when things didn't turn out the way I'd hoped.

The truth is, I haven't "recovered" according to my own timetable, or even according to that of well-meaning friends. If I'd had my way, Jesus would have powered the pain out of my soul after a single earnest prayer, after one soul-baring journal entry, after a few weeks or a couple months of misery.

In my mind, grief should follow the textbook stages one after another, without cycling back. Grief should be proportionate to the length and true potential of the relationship and should begin and end neatly. But despite my pleas, God hasn't chosen to work that way in this case.

Though I marvel daily at how far he's brought me since the initial loss, I still have occasional moments like the one in the card shop. Moments when I realize that although I've taken plenty of action toward moving on, only grieving ends grief, and it has its own timetable. I won't help myself by swallowing it, ignoring it, or pretending that since time's up, I shouldn't attend to it. Those reactions will only prolong the process, and could make me bitter and unwilling to share my heart with someone worthy of it.

Instead, I've learned to respect grief and some of the "uglier" emotions that accompany it. Although my season of grief has been difficult, it's been formative spiritually. It's forced me to rely on resources beyond a can-do spirit and fading invincibility. It's made me more sensitive to others' pain. It's helped me to realize I serve a God whose purposes are beyond my immediate comfort, fulfillment, or understanding. It's caused me to find the things about my life I appreciate.

This painful season has come with an even greater gift—a fuller appreciation of Jesus, the Savior who knew great suffering. Because his body was bruised for my sin, I know he understands the pain of a bruised soul. Because he cried out in anguish to his father, I feel comfortable doing the same on the pages of my journal. Jesus is an advocate who's acquainted with sorrow.

Over the last few months, I've slowly begun to understand "resurrection" in a way beyond anything I learned in Sunday school. Week after week of acute emotional pain slowly became a few occasional bad days. Now it's just a "card shop" moment every now and then. I feel myself coming back to life.

Just a few months ago, this lunchtime incident would have left me in a funk for the rest of the day. But as I paid for my card and stepped out into the warm, sunny afternoon, I said a prayer of thanks, reminded of the many good things I do have—a stronger faith, a deeper empathy, the beginnings of dancing for mourning, and a God who can always help me.

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