A handicap spot, and you seem so able as I cluck my judging mental tongue. But I don’t see the pain and fatigue that chains your ankles to the ground, making even those few extra steps a burden.
When the inconsiderate one enters the exit instead of the entrance, I assume she is obtuse or disrespectful of other people’s space, but what I don’t see is the soul that is counting steps to see how many she can manage with the energy left and still finish all her errands.
You looked strong today, so in control. And what I didn’t see were the tears cupped at the edge of your frazzled and pained brain, ready to spill with the slightest jostle. What I didn’t see was the bathroom stall where tears fell and spirit sagged from a thoughtless word.
I have gotten the call and seen my beloved’s mangled motorcycle that once was shiny and new. I have seen is grey limp body wheeled quickly down sterile corriders as I moved in shadows and fog.
I have opened the email with shocking words of a denial of faith, ever more sorrowing over the distance, each word a pierce and a weight.
I have stood by the side of the road, barely breathing, as firefighters reclaimed my boy’s broken body with Jaws of Life. And I have helplessly watched him medivac-ed away by air to a trauma unit full of strangers when all I wanted was to hold him.
I have sung tearful songs, holding my Father’s hand, waiting for that last breath, wondering why so much pain for a life so well-lived.
And I have spread ashes to the wind of my wee firstborn . . . so is it unrealistic to fear . . . to conjure up in my imagination all the what-ifs in what often appears to be a Russian-roulette kind of life?
How does my devout life, invested totally in You, meet head to head and heart to heart with the broken life, with crumpled expectations–this broken life that would cry for intervention and often reap silences.
God of the silences, help.
Help me cling when I feel I am slipping away.
Show me the shimmers behind doubt that keep me pressing on when my fists are clenched and my soul weeps.
Forgive the anger–but a word of sure hope would be a help.
If faith is substance, the tangible, concrete stuff of things hoped for, I am needing a fistful to fill this gaping hole of fear.
“In You, oh Lord, do I take refuge; let me never be put to shame; in Your righteousness deliver me!” ~~Psalm 31:1 (ESV)