warmth

Last night I was splayed open, pain exposed naked again. It rose in tremors. It rose in anguish. I would wail if I could. I would release everything in long, bellowing moans that would hang in the air and allow everyone in earshot to mourn along.

But in the convulsing pain, there is a warmth. Grieving is not empty and dark and consuming when your Father's hands hold tight to what is deep inside. I would never grieve if He wasn't there. I would steel my heart and decompose beneath, turning what is beautiful in me to rot and waste. Instead the confines of His enveloping arms provide the freedom to unveil the pain that rips me to my core. These wounds won't fester, especially not in the bandaged care of community. So thank you dear friends who've pierced me in love and compassion and won't let me go. You love as Love Himself and you've changed me.

I love you dearly.