In an heirloom southern rocker she pushes off of creaking, splintered wood panels. A splinter grovels its way through her soft, fleshy small toe, but she pushes through. Gritting her teeth, salt springs ooze salt tears over salty cheeks. How can I remove the splinter in my toe when thousands puncture my soul. That's what it feels like, ya know. Suddenly I can't breath, I panic, how did she go?
The breeze becomes a torrent tossing her thin, matted hair around her face. It frames a portrait of weeping shame. Thoughts of "if only" are tossed in her ear. Her mind drinks in and becomes intoxicated with the condemnation. If only I had spent more time. If only I had slowed down. If only I hadn't worried. If only I had said no to things that didn't matter. If only I had lived what I knew was best, not what other people told me. If only, if only.
The hurricane of emotion slowly whisks away. The corn fields rising over hills in the distance show promising heads ripe and full. I want to destroy them. I want others to know the pain of losing the fruit of their labor. Who knows what I feel if not when they experience it themselves? No one can tell me move on, no one can tell me let go until they know.
She pushes back slowly and stares through a hole in the roof. It was going to be fixed before...But now it will stay broken. For some reason it was right, though. She could see clouds pass quietly. It was her own small world to enjoy. Everything else overwhelmed. But not that small piece of heaven. Staring up she felt her world slowly re-arrange. She even sighed in wonder and prayed.
She had to start small. That piece of sky made all the difference. She could handle small pieces of sky. She could stare at her feet, then her hands, then the steps, the walk, the fence. But she could not see them all at once, that was too much. She lifted herself off of the rocker. Shuffled in to the kitchen, past the greasy pans, the uneaten spaghetti. She looked at the laminate, square upon square, looked at the corner of the wall, okay, good, just make it to the bedroom and try to make the bed. In looking at small things, her eyes lit upon the one thing she had tried to avoid. The small, wooden, high chair sat empty. She cried out slowly, moaning, bending to push away the throbbing stomach.
God, this hurts too much. Memory is pain. What do I do, take it out and forget? Or keep it and torture myself every time I want a glass of water. "There is a time for everything"
I heard, I heard!
Slowly, she set the high chair outside on the step, closed the door and made again the trek. She still weeps for baby Innocence once in a while, but she listens to her Father and follows through the fire.
As times of suffering come and go in your life may you ever cling to God, even when He doesn't make sense, when He puts you through test upon test. He loves you. He wants you to have the victory. Remember that he put Jacob's hip out of joint to remind Him that the battle truly is the LORD's. He causes the waves to rise and fall. May You allow Him to mold You this semester.