some things are sad
and even our righteous ire,
and sit down to the hard work of being sad for the world.
It takes guts,
not anger but sorrow;
it tires prophets and psalmists alike.
The wolf that cries in the long valley,
the sea that chants its lament
over and over with sighs and tears,
the hermit on sore knees,
the angels at their posts
taking turns offering up their aching hearts,
even Christ weeping,
they can’t do it alone.
In the end
it is the broken hearted
in whom we find the deepest companionship.
We come away wet with grief
yet oddly strengthened
with the fibers of hope.
In grief for the world
we touch its worth.
In sorrow we find each other,
the substance of joy.
Weird, isn’t it,
how that alone
is the healing balm we ask? __________________
“Only he who cries… is permitted to sing…” is what Bonhoeffer said.
Only those authentic enough to lament, are authentic enough to love.
When everything is stripped away and you have nothing left and in all your bare vulnerability, there is communion with God.
– Ann Voskamp
I am bare naked
Down to my bones
Even my comfortable skin is gone
I shiver as the cold blows through me
I have cried many tears
My song has been watered to full growth
Being alive does not come without cost
to continue to make the choices
to bring the song
that fills spring with joy
and the whole world
With light and love