Roots that take me,

Grip me.

Branches that reach gnarled fingertips towards hopeless clouds.

And holes in the ground... everywhere.

Rabbit holes that lead to nowhere.

Just dirt on my tongue, earth in my ears, wet, blinking eyes.

The kind of hallelujah that comes from a wail.

The tearful, sorrow filled gasping that somehow sounds like his name.

Jesus. Your name.

Trickling from those gaping holes in the ground.

Spilling out over twisted arms and leafy trunks.

Kneading away at old, old roots.

We don't know until we tread here.

We don't understand until we taste the dirt.

We didn't want to know the presence of apathy and the lure of breakdown.

We squeeze the shit out of those lemons, hoping that something, somewhere, will turn into gold.

But it's just that stinging drip of lemon juice, mixed with dirt on our palms.

Lean back, scratching skin on bark. Fingers graze the grass. Eyes blinking in the sunlight.

Letting go tastes like despair.

And that name, that presence, sits against my own space of grief with me.

"Do not be afraid; you will not suffer shame. Do not fear disgrace; you will not be humiliated. You will forget the shame of your youth and remember no more the reproach of your widowhood.  For your Maker is your husband-- the LORD Almighty is his name-- the Holy One of Israel is your Redeemer; he is called the God of all the earth.  The LORD will call you back as if you were a wife deserted and distressed in spirit-- a wife who married young, only to be rejected," says your God.
Isaiah 54]

*October 2012