- Oct 26, 2005
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It is the story
of how fresh, fine fruit grew on a barren tree,
of how moonlight stalked the darkness and devoured it,
of how winter snows were snatched by strong southern
winds,
of how an empty, hollow heart grew rich with the fullness of
an unseen presence.
It is the story of one
who learned the penetrating power of silence,
whose heart listened more deeply than the ears of flesh,
who savored the faithfulness of friends who stood by,
who fled down the dark alleyways of depression and walked
into the ripe rims of Easter lilies.
The seed in black earth
is no mere comfort slogan to the bereaved.
It is fully the groan and agony of one falling
into the hell of nothingness.
It is wholly the pain of one crawling out of the pit, hands
and knees on sharp rocks, spewing the blood of an angry
search amid the stench of memories.
Many see only what is before them, some see not even that.
But the one who has been in the harbor of despair
ponders and savors the delicate, first curl of the greening
leaf in a grateful way that no one else ever can.
The one who has howled in the far countries of darkness
lingers long with the faint traces of light in the dawn.
The one who has torn into her past, with the rage of the
wild,
snatches the first jagged pieces of her life's puzzle
and she shouts out like one in a field full of treasures:
"I have found my Self! I, who have died, have come back to life!"
Praying Our Goodbyes, Joyce Rupp Copyright 2009
of how fresh, fine fruit grew on a barren tree,
of how moonlight stalked the darkness and devoured it,
of how winter snows were snatched by strong southern
winds,
of how an empty, hollow heart grew rich with the fullness of
an unseen presence.
It is the story of one
who learned the penetrating power of silence,
whose heart listened more deeply than the ears of flesh,
who savored the faithfulness of friends who stood by,
who fled down the dark alleyways of depression and walked
into the ripe rims of Easter lilies.
The seed in black earth
is no mere comfort slogan to the bereaved.
It is fully the groan and agony of one falling
into the hell of nothingness.
It is wholly the pain of one crawling out of the pit, hands
and knees on sharp rocks, spewing the blood of an angry
search amid the stench of memories.
Many see only what is before them, some see not even that.
But the one who has been in the harbor of despair
ponders and savors the delicate, first curl of the greening
leaf in a grateful way that no one else ever can.
The one who has howled in the far countries of darkness
lingers long with the faint traces of light in the dawn.
The one who has torn into her past, with the rage of the
wild,
snatches the first jagged pieces of her life's puzzle
and she shouts out like one in a field full of treasures:
"I have found my Self! I, who have died, have come back to life!"
Praying Our Goodbyes, Joyce Rupp Copyright 2009
amen to that, sister. i get that feeling a lot (feeling like youre going to go down the drain, feeling that i cant handle this) but God has held me up this far. without him i could not endure this suffering.
