I remember a time, more faintly now, when my heart broke so deeply, I thought it would never mend. I asked God to never let me fully forget that once I got married, so I can always have a tender place of empathy for the singularly gut-wrenching melange of disappointment, depression, and loss.
If you are broken-hearted today - I won't belittle you with trite cliches. It hurts. It hurts badly. And in the depth of that hole of pain, I pray that God gives you the strength to look up. He's there; the Light at the end of the tunnel.
This is something I wrote when I was just able to make out a glimpse of hope in the midst of dark dispair. I hope it encourages you.
If you are broken-hearted today - I won't belittle you with trite cliches. It hurts. It hurts badly. And in the depth of that hole of pain, I pray that God gives you the strength to look up. He's there; the Light at the end of the tunnel.
This is something I wrote when I was just able to make out a glimpse of hope in the midst of dark dispair. I hope it encourages you.
Kind Cruelty is your name; you who took my heart and cradled it before you stomped its fire out. Crimson laughter burned through your throat like the rum of my father’s homeland. I was too intoxicated by its cadences to notice the needles in your hands. The dagger words poised to impale me.
“It’s not you, it’s me.”
Just like that, no more lingering cherry kisses, no more nights driving past stop lights. No more coffee breakfasts or bacon & egg dinners. You always knew when I needed more soy milk. You used to take my hand every time we entered a room. You led my grandfather to the good chair to ease his legs. And you led me to mistake your kindness for love.
Cruel Kindness is Your name, You whose grace is surgical; cut, slice and mend. My anger boiled at You for all the tears, those dagger-words You let him thrust into me. You were supposed to be my heavy quilt in winter, my cool water in the desert. My present help. Silence was Your response when I shouted, whispered, cried:
“Why didn’t he want me?”
Slowly, my bloodshot eyes began to clear. Your listening ear and Your people were my chicken soup. I always had soy milk, quit the coffee and took up herbal tea, and curled up with good friends and Your Good Book. Your wine-words smoothed and coated my lonely nerves, strengthened and sewed my heart. You bend toward my heart’s ear to say:
“I know the plans I have for you.”
“It’s not you, it’s me.”
Just like that, no more lingering cherry kisses, no more nights driving past stop lights. No more coffee breakfasts or bacon & egg dinners. You always knew when I needed more soy milk. You used to take my hand every time we entered a room. You led my grandfather to the good chair to ease his legs. And you led me to mistake your kindness for love.
Cruel Kindness is Your name, You whose grace is surgical; cut, slice and mend. My anger boiled at You for all the tears, those dagger-words You let him thrust into me. You were supposed to be my heavy quilt in winter, my cool water in the desert. My present help. Silence was Your response when I shouted, whispered, cried:
“Why didn’t he want me?”
Slowly, my bloodshot eyes began to clear. Your listening ear and Your people were my chicken soup. I always had soy milk, quit the coffee and took up herbal tea, and curled up with good friends and Your Good Book. Your wine-words smoothed and coated my lonely nerves, strengthened and sewed my heart. You bend toward my heart’s ear to say:
“I know the plans I have for you.”
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