I have been quiet for the past month, not much motivated to write. I've been struggling with lingering grief over a vocational call process last spring that affirmed my call to ministry but didn't result in a call to a new ministry. While my current ministry is full and life-giving, I am faced with the opportunity to process my grief over this discernment opportunity, rather than stuff it down out of sight. Walking has provided a necessary daily reflection time, and the grief sometimes emerges slowly, in uncomfortable shards. From this ongoing process, the following poem worked its way through my fingers to my keyboard. Like shrapnel, I am letting it appear so that it doesn't stay trapped.
Grief. Like shrapnel.
Working its sinister way to the surface.
Bits of anger, sadness, regret, remorse
Emerging on the dermis of emotional wounds
Creating small scars that mar
The surface of joy and contentment.
Grief is a long journey through dark woods.
Roots catch on my dragging feet.
The musty smell of sadness thickens the air.
Sunlight struggles to penetrate the thicket.
It is tempting to just stop and cease the journey;
Sit on a rotting log and rest for a moment,
Which becomes days,
Fearing that sunlight is no longer reachable,
That the forest has no edge,
That meadows have become swamps.
I keep moving, plodding forward,
Not sure where I’m going or what I’ll encounter,
But moving nonetheless,
Curious enough to wonder,
To hope to discover something
Something intriguing in the woods.
The leaves on the trees are golden,
Fading in the autumn air,
Vivid to the eye, but not my heart.
I can see the joy,
But I can’t feel it.
I know it’s there,
Waiting to work its way to the surface,
buried under pieces of grief.
I need to keep moving,
Working the sweat out of my pores,
Pushing the grief to the surface,
Facing the discomfort as it emerges,
Pushing through the pain,
Anticipating joy at the edge of the woods,
But restlessly content
As I keep moving
Through
The darkness.
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