On today, in the empty spaces of my soul, I chose to color in the "voids" with black crayons. I intentionally decided to pitch a tent in the pit to isolate my vulnerabilities and nurse my grieving heart privately. I consciously abandoned the fences of religious expectations that place limitations on my process and seeks to persecute the validity of my faith. The oversized, sackcloth of sorrow drapes my flesh and replaces the superwoman cape, which attests to my humanity.
In the exiled swamp of my tears, I release the anchors of doubt that tries to drown me. As I float on my back and close my eyes to what-if scenarios, I inhale his promises. His peace leads my anxiousness beside the still waters of his calmness. My bones hover over a body of childhood memories. As I drift further, I see familiar hands reaching for me, but I'm out of proximity.
My flesh responds in anger and I begin to fight against the currents to reach those hands. I know it's her, so I fight harder. Swarms of black crows claim my attention. The troubled water pulls me underneath a few times.
After I stop wrestling, I realize it's morning again. Doves are circling the air. The sunshine dances over the body of water that surrounds me and the ripples comfort me.
"For his anger lasts only a moment, but his favor lasts a lifetime; weeping may stay for the night, but rejoicing comes in the morning." Psalm 30:5
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