(This picture was taken by my husband – the night sky over the corn field
across the street from us – isn’t he amazing?)
When the
grief you carry
wears your
face into a thousand
heavy lines,
when the sadness
feels like a
knife splitting
your very
body in two,
night will
come at last.
With the
children tucked safe
in their
beds, you will stand
in the
doorway of your own
darkened
room and the night
will welcome
you with its wide,
and gentle embrace.
How can I
explain that this
is what you
need, what you
have waited
for, this knowing
that the
darkness is nothing
to
fear? You will lie down
on your bed,
half curled
around the
old, old wound,
with your
face turned toward
the
windows. Weeping,
your eyes
will search
outlines of
trees, the few
bright stars
captured in your
window’s
frame.
Now that you
are no longer afraid,
the night
will hold you with its velvet
love, the
emptiness of the darkness
sidling up
against you as the well
of grief
pours out.
“There’s
something comforting
about the
darkness,” you will tell
your husband
when he finds you there.
Instinctively,
like the night, he will curl
himself
around you offering not words,
but himself
to hold you, his flesh
echoing in physicality
the sweet
silent night
that draws you close.
This post is linked with Playdates with God and Unforced Rhythms.
A beautiful photo. It is amazing the comfort we can feel in the night when our husbands curl there with us, holding us silently. It reminds me that our God has indeed made us one. May you continue to rest in His comfort!
Yes, the night sky out here is lovely.
What a lovely offering of words, Kelly. May the Lord continue to comfort you as you do your "grief work" and may He continue to hold you in His darkness of "velvet love."
Thanks 🙂
There is something comforting about night now – everything's done ( or all that's going to get done) – and I can just rest, invite the healer in to treat our wounds of the day – to bind them up – and, it just wows me that God knew we needed a husband to comfort us like that! beautiful photo and poem full of real!
I heard an evening prayer once (benedictine, maybe?) : What is done has been done, what has not been done, has not been done, Let it go. Seems like a good way to end the day.
Hi Kelly! I can just sigh and see myself in that doorway at night. The end of the day means "I made it. There's hope." And give myself to the One who made me.
From Unforced Rhythms,
Ceil
Too many days, I'm too tired by the end to think anything! This was a rare night when our older kids were away and the twins already in bed. Thanks for stopping by!
Oh… Kelly. Came by from Unforced Rhythms and this… oh… this. I get it. And your lack of fear of grief, of dark, your allowing it to embrace you (and thereby allowing Jesus ((and your husband)) to encounter you in it)… it's just rich. Not to mention beautifully written. Thank you for this. Wow. Just wow. What a gift.
Thank you Dana. I realized that night that THIS is what God had been preparing me for all last year as I walked through a time of deep darkness. It took a long time for me to get over my fear, a long time to trust God's guiding presence, but now I'm so grateful for the gift of knowing how sweet the darkness can be. Thanks for your kind words.
Wow, the sweetness of darkness. I'm not sure I've yet seen it as a comfort, until these words. Kelly, really, I don't wish to sound like a broken record, but – your poetry is so moving and clear. All of this, these beautiful words, sweeps me up in a deep knowing, even if we bear some different griefs. Your imagery is so timely for me today, friend, as I prepare to see my counselor. I have walked in and out of darkness these past few years, and I sense I'm heading back in, at least in some regards – facing old and present griefs again. And this, in particular, speaks to me:
"You will lie down
on your bed, half curled
around the old, old wound,
with your face turned toward
the windows. Weeping,
your eyes will search
outlines of trees, the few
bright stars captured in your
window’s frame."
I can't tell you what a comfort it is to read this. And also, I'm encouraged by your bravery in facing the dark, the old, old wounds, of no longer fearing it. I pray I can take that with me today and the days to come.
Isn't it good to have friends on the journey together? I do want to be clear, though, I am still afraid of the old wounds, they still hold power over me, but the darkness (the not knowing of how or when I will move through this place of pain) is no longer frightening to me. I believe God reveals wounds slowly, one bit at a time, just as we are ready to face them.
Your poetry, Kelly, never ceases to move me in ways I didn't even know I needed moving. So, so blessed to know you friend.
Thanks so much, Beth 🙂