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A Word to the Wounded

17 Feb

 

I didn’t expect this to happen. I didn’t want this to happen.
But now it has come, and its weight slowly settles onto my shoulders and back.
Like a storm moving in, removing light, removing warmth, removing hope.
The earth beneath my feet has turned to mud. I sink, I slip, I fall.
I am now dirty, wet, tired, and broken.
My burdens once bearable, now seem impossible.
I try to rise, but a misplaced foot leaves me where I began – face first in the mud.
Lying still on the ground, a sickening solace fills me – driven to a point of exhaustion and hopelessness.
I contemplate a choice to let wind and water reign.

 

Storm from Flickr via Wylio

© 2015 Jussi Ollila, Flickr | CC-BY | via Wylio

 

But then I feel a presence – a familiar warmth, a stirring memory.
I lack the strength to look up, but I know who has come to me.
Fearing not the mud would stain his garments of white, he bends the knee.
Strong hands gently lift the weight from my back.
Part of me is not ready to release it, but I let go.

He lowers his hand – scarred and calloused.
Moments ago, there was not the strength to reach, but with no burden, a desperate lunge found me in his grip. The warmth of his hand, seeped down into my cold spaces, awakening life within.
I stood to my feet waiting for the storm to end, and all to be made right.
The moments passed, yet the wind and rain only grew in its thirst to overthrow me.
I clung to the One beside me, who alone made each step possible.

Searching to find a way out, my eyes stray.
I stumble and almost fall – steadied by Him who walks beside me.
I dare a look up into his eyes wanting to apologize for the mess I am in.
Expecting judgment and disappointment, his eyes are wholly other – filled with confidence and love.

At that moment, I know everything will be okay.

 

This poem was written in memory of Eric Harms.

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