Her head is bent over the sink , soapy water laps at her hands and those she has taught and hand-held and laughed with and cried with and now are piercing the air with shrieks and cutting words. She sees and hears and her heart aches with the conflict of burdens not yet done and those yet still to do, and no one seems to know.
He stares awkwardly down at the paper, questions that have answers but overwhelmed at the prospect of knowing them, there must be some way out … the easiest one would be best but expectations create the bars that hold him in this prison, certain that the short path will lead to more of the same and no one seems to understand.
If only some one could take away this emptiness, to fill this un= bounded abyss, where lies the joy, the peace, the freedom, if only the path were clear. Try and try and still, no matter what I try to pour into this blackness it continues to be only momentary, fleeting, Isn’t there a way to peace?
The gaze of the soul, seeing with soul eyes looks upon and sees, but only when seeing comes from what is out rather than in. Can I find thankfulness when I am cut down, can joy be a mercenary friend if I am not willing to recognize from where joy is birthed? Grace are you there in the middle of the suffering or do you laugh at my folly.
My joy can not be found in what I expect others to give to me …it must be found in whom gave it.