Tag: Mourning

Totalitarian

February 10, 2016

I look around me and see,

Everything I’ve known coming apart;

Angry people seeking unity in common hatred,

Tribes forming; preparing for a great battle…

Over the lost soul of a too proud nation.

Denying the Spirit that kept them,

Bent on destruction,

On war.

 

“It’s time to tear it all down!” they say,

Abandon that old Constitution, let’s go backward,

And instead be like Europe, that far superior model!

Of Democratic Socialism, “we’ll all feed each other man”

But government workers produce no food, no housing, no necessities…

We’ll leave all of that to a sub-class of workers,

Independent Neanderthals of small business!

And immigrant workers with no legal status…

Slaves to serve the governing elite!

Equality earned through compliance.

To the Government,

Who bestows it;

Totalitarian.

 

But look what we’ve built they say!

A tall tower of power and untold wealth!

A marriage of Corporation and Government;

Come! Get in bed with us and we’ll make your dreams come true!

Just sign this contract, pay your dues, we’ll keep you safe from terrorists!

Give us your liberty in exchange for health care and we’ll pretend to be capitalists!

But forget that old Constitution, idealism never to be…

Be pragmatic; say to yourself “What’s in it for me?”

Tear down that dream in your heart,

Old dream of personal liberty!

Equality, freedom for all,

Morally sound persons,

Longing to be free…

Crush them!

Progressive!

Totalitarian.

 

They tore Woodstock down as a prophecy…

In their desperation born glee of destruction!

In hatred of the global giant their parents deny but all see;

The Beastlike Government growing and growing…

In youth, hearts long to be free!

Rebellion whispers,” Anarchy!”

“Don’t tread on me!”

But no, not the Constitution!

Old White man’s Document!

Lost in interpretation…

No borders! No boundaries!

Each to their own!

Liberty to the strongest!

By the Gun!

Personal Totalitarian,

Chaos.

 

Mourning America, I went searching for freedom’s song,

The one that echoes in this old American heart:

Individual freedom; guarded by morality;

Equal value; God given rights to life,

Liberty, and pursuit of happiness;

Freedom to succeed and to fail;

All outlined in the Constitution.

Old Document that when left to do so,

Interprets itself.

The forgotten

Answer!

The true American Dream;

The Spirit of right Unity;

A common dream of personal liberty,

With respect for the liberty of others;

Dependence upon God not Government,

Freedom maintained by healthy morality,

That denies the need to be governed,

By other men and women;

Totalitarian

Rule ends;

If we but begin,

Again,

On our knees!

And live as the men and women,

God intended us to be.

Are you willing? “To die or live free?”

Or will you knuckle under,

Submit,

To Totalitarian.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Recluse (Part III)

January 30, 2016

Part I http://wp.me/p6iXvK-dQ

Part II http://wp.me/p6iXvK-eh

On this beautiful, late June morning, Estelle is outside tending to the roses and Rhododendron before the humidity becomes unbearable. The rare treat of a clear, blue, Pennsylvania sky fills her with a sense of elation so intense that part of her interprets it as a premonition of something exciting on the way. Estelle dismisses this idea as quickly as it rises because she knows there can be nothing new in her hum- drum life. With intensity, she focuses on clipping withered blossoms from the Rhododendron hedge that forms the eastern boundary of her property. They are in full bloom, pink, white, and red; the favorite of the humming birds whirring around her garden. Caravana, her fluffy white cat, contentedly weaves himself in and out of her ankles as she works. The two are inseparable. A sudden breeze picks up, turning the leaves on the oak tree upside down, and Estelle takes note that it will rain later today. As she pushes to finish her work, she hears the door-bell ring, looks at her watch, and makes a mental inventory of any deliveries that might be coming on this new Tuesday. Nothing coming to mind, Estelle decides to ignore the bell, a bit irritated at the interruption from the outside world. Being alone is her normal state and any feelings of loneliness were buried deep, a long time ago.

“Hello? Is anyone home? I’m your new neighbor!” Startled, Estelle looks up and her eyes lock with two large, brown eyes peering over the top of her back gate. With no way to escape, she pulls herself together and politely asks, “Yes? May I help you?” Though she is very poised, Estelle is alarmed not only, by the uninvited intrusion but there is something in those eyes that she recognizes. Those eyes draw her like a magnet but at the same time frighten her to her very core. Then she chides herself, “It’s just a little girl!” Alisha determined to make meaningful contact doesn’t hesitate, “I made some Bisquochitos and I thought maybe we could try them together? I copied my mother’s recipe and Momma says that Bisquochitos should never be eaten alone.” Estelle is caught off guard by someone bringing her a gift and offering companionship, as well. What could this child be up to? “Well, thank you for the thought dear. What are Bis..quit…cheatas?” Alisha laughs, “They are Mexican sugar cookies and they’re very good with milk or hot tea! If you open the gate, I’ll show you!” Estelle hesitates and timidly lifts the latch, as the gate swings open she asks, “Are… you from Mexico?” “Oh, no!” Alisha giggles, “I was born in Virginia. My dad was stationed there. My parents are from Arizona but I grew up in Philadelphia. My dad works on computers and we moved here so he could start his own business. We moved in three weeks ago. Did you notice?” “Oh yes, I noticed.” Estelle answered, “Many neighbors have come and gone during the time I’ve lived here.” The implication is a show of strength meant as a defense. Estelle struggles to keep her walls up despite the very forward attempts on the part of Alisha to tear them down. “Oh, you’ve lived here a long time then? Do you have some milk or tea so we can try my cookies?” Not knowing quite how to turn this little girl aside, Estelle plays the role of hostess, from memories of long ago. “Yes, I have both but little girls should have milk, I’ll have tea.” By this statement, Estelle hoped to establish authority and retrieve control. “Come this way, sit here, and I’ll be back in a moment.” Alisha sat down at the patio table, disappointed that she didn’t make it all the way inside. Through the glass door, she couldn’t make out many details of the kitchen and before long, Estelle re-emerged with the beverages.

“Here you go. Hmmm…what did you say your name was?” Estelle asked. “Oh! I’m Alisha…Alisha Hernandez. My mom and dad are Maria and Tony. May I ask your name?” “I’m Mrs. Williams.” Estelle said firmly, hoping to stop further inquires and keep the relationship formal. “Do you like my Bisquochitos?” “Yes, they are quite tasty, dear and thank you. I thought all Mexican food was spicy but these have a delicate flavor. Thank you for bringing them over. Drink your milk up now. I appreciate your kindness but I’ve a great deal to accomplish today.” Alisha feeling that she is losing her opportunity fast, asks with the abruptness of a child, “Why don’t you have any family or friends?” The words pierce like sharp shards of broken glass shot into Estelle’s heart, “It isn’t appropriate, dear to ask such personal questions of a stranger. I think it is time for you to run along.” With gentile niceties, Estelle rushes Alisha back out the gate and out of her safe, quiet world.

Estelle looks up and marvels at how quickly the blue sky had turned gray. With storm clouds looming and the humidity intensifying, she turns to putting away her gardening tools, and then suddenly, misses Caravana. “Kitty, kitty! Handsome Caravana! Where are you?” Thinking he may have followed her into the kitchen, Estelle goes inside to look for him. The door bell rings, again! Still calling for her feline best friend, Estelle dutifully, answers the door and there stands Alisha, holding a purring Caravana. Not waiting for an invitation she knows by now, probably won’t come, Alisha pushes her way in. “He followed me out of the gate and I was back home before I noticed him. He likes me I think.” Alisha is stunned by the interior of this average home. Everything is up-to-date and perfect like in a magazine. Above the fire-place is a portrait of a woman who resembles Mrs. Williams but she realizes right away the painting isn’t of her neighbor. There were also, lots of photographs of the same woman, in frames, scattered here and there around the room. So many clues to take note of but they only added to the mystery of “The Lone Lady” and offered no answers. “Your house is beautiful! Who is that woman?” Estelle weary of the intrusion decides to ignore Alisha’s questions, “Thank you for bringing Caravana home. Have a good day.” She takes the cat from the girl and shoos her out the door, locking it behind her.

Holding Caravanna close, Estelle sits down, gently on the pale-blue velvet couch and admires the expensive decor. Walls the color of banana cream pie add warmth to the light blue draperies and furnishings, highlighted with silver and a hint of rose. The fabrics are rich and expensive; the rugs thick with soft luxury. She feels proud of the work she’s done here and as she looks up at her mother’s portrait, asks out loud, “Do you like it, Momma? I know it’s still a small house but do you like it this way? I did it for you, Momma. Now, do you love me? Is it good enough?” Caravana responds to Estelle’s deep longing, stirred by the unwanted interaction of the morning, and snuggles his nose into her neck. Comforted but still shaken, Estelle tries to decipher the feelings Alisha brought to the surface. Still waters run deep and she preferred to keep the waters still with the hurt and confusion resting at the bottom. What was it about those eyes? It was Alisha’s huge, chocolate-brown, child eyes that drew her irresistibly, toward her but also, filled her with dread. She looked up at the portrait again and understood. The little girl’s eyes held the same expression as her mother’s. A chill she couldn’t name passed over her as the weight of the void pressed down. Exhausted, Estelle made her way to the back of the house and sought refuge in the heart of this shrine. Her mother’s room speaks of royalty, frivolity, and fairytales. Estelle faithfully, places fresh pink roses in this room every day, and their scent permeates this secret haven. With Caravana, she lies down on the sacred bed and cries herself to sleep, not understanding who she is crying for.

Estelle’s dreams tell her the truth of her inner mysteries and reveal the reason for her isolation. A nightmare that is somehow also, comforting. Most of her dreams will fade and the reckoning taking place in them will be forgotten by morning. What will remain is only a clue to the truth that is the key to unlocking the door shut on her life.

(To be Continued)

On the Day She Became an Old Woman

January 21, 2016

On the day Carol became an old woman, she shed several tears. Standing in the threshold of the last days of her life filled her with certain uncertainty. Though life is tenuous at any age, when old age comes everyone knows what comes next and there is no way to dodge death. This dreadful day came so suddenly yet also, gradually. Somehow, she didn’t think it would happen to her. Carol never could picture herself with grey hair and never accepted it. In fact she did everything in her power to remain young looking and deny the passing of time but on this day, reality couldn’t be denied. Would she live long enough for her hair to turn white or worse, fall out? Carol didn’t want to die but she didn’t want to be elderly either.

Carol gravitated toward the bed and overcome by this strange season in life, laid down and absent-mindedly, stared out the window, upward into the perfectly blue sky. It was early afternoon, she was tired and it felt good to lie down. She remembered when she never felt tired during the day and how hard she’d worked all of her life; all that was required of her to obtain this familiar, beloved place to relax and gaze at the sky, as she loved to do. Now, she had to think about letting it all go and down-sizing. Tears filled her eyes to the brim when she thought of the children and how far away they are now. She worked so hard at raising them, at doing for others, and now, that she is less capable of serving it seems she is mostly forgotten. Her life once noisy and full is now, quiet. Carol needs quiet at this age but misses companionship, camaraderie, and most of all, being needed. These days she and her husband had to focus on self-care and every day it became more time consuming. No matter the reason, a self-consumed life is a lonely life. She reminded herself to be grateful that she still had her husband and felt a bit of relief in the act of counting a blessing. Then she thought of the inevitable final good-by and the brimming tears over-flowed.

Sunshine streamed warmth through her bedroom window to relax Carol’s sore, stiff muscles and joints. She could see the very tops of the trees swaying in a gentle breeze, as she ebbed into a sorrowful sleep. Carol drifted into dreams and felt herself as she was inside, at the prime of life. It was a bright summer day in a special place. Towering mountains surrounded a valley with a lake in a green meadow. Just beyond the shore-line lay a beautiful forrest, with every kind of tree. The trees nearest the lake bore various fruits more luscious than any she’d ever seen or tasted. There was such peace in this place, a benign but powerful presence that quieted her every anxiety. Birds in free cacophony filled the air with the music of gratitude. Music so beautiful that Carol found herself also, singing. The lyrics flowed through her from the Presence and washed away every sorrow. Suddenly, she was aware of her husband standing beside her and taking her hand in his. Their eyes met in glowing smiles, they kissed, and then realized they weren’t alone. This beautiful place was filled with content, joyful people, all in the prime of life. It was evident there was no sickness here, no aging, no decay, and no death. “This is my home” was her final thought before she found herself awake.

Outside Carol’s window, the sun was fading in a peach and blue display and the tree tops were still. The atmosphere of her dream lingered in the feeling of that powerful Presence and she heard in her spirit; “Trust me Carol. You must let go of this world before you may enter this better place I allowed you to visit in your dreams. This isn’t the end but a new beginning, a revealing of eternity that is new to you now, but a reality that has always been. You belong to Me and everything you love and must let go of here, I will replace and multiply when you are finally home. Until then, continue to serve me. Reach out to others as you are able and point them to My Son. Though you must rest often now, give that time to prayer and meditation. I still have My purpose to work through you here. I won’t abandon you and I will see you safely, through every step of letting go. Then I will safely, see you home.” Carol’s tired, sad heart flooded with the surety only, a beloved child knows and an acceptance of her circumstance that comes only, by trust in the Divine. Refreshed and revitalized, her thoughts turned to Jim, and as she had done innumerable times before, she got up to cook his dinner. Grateful that Jim was still with her and required this of her but also, reassured that should he pass on before her, she would never be alone. Their best days were yet to come.

The Breach

January 7, 2016

An old woman sits on a bench, placed against a south facing wall, enjoying the sun as it melts aches and pains away. Lost in the bright warmth on her face, she begins to dream in reverse. Riding the rays of the sun, she finds herself transported to that special place, sitting on flag-stone, beneath the blooming bows of the old Lilacs at Grandma’s house. Such a sky on this day in early May; a vast dome of the bluest blue that only a child’s eyes can see! The scent of Lilac permeates everything, with the bushes themselves joining overhead in an embrace that provides protection for two little girls, immersed in imaginative play. With tulips and other spring flowers turned upside down to become dolls dressed in ball gowns; these happy girls dance the day away. Light gleams on the hair of the cotton-top girl’s curly hair, as if in competition with the sun. The older girl is darker and even this bright day only manages to pull a few golden highlights from the ashen, darker waves beneath. Sisters in deep contrast to one another but locked together by blood, trust, and love.

Lost in the dream of her memory, in the past as important as now, the old woman sighs as from this point in time, she starts to dream forward. She begins to roll away from this heavenly moment, this snippet of blissful harmony, down her road of life. So many rough spots, navigational mistakes, mud-holes, missed stop signs, and confusing intersections. Somewhere on the way, harmony was lost and the contrast became glaring. Blood wasn’t enough to hold these sisters together. Trust was broken. Love does remain but only, as a reminder of the relationship that once existed; but now, is a relationship severed in a fierce misunderstanding. Pride over-rode the bond of blood and to this day, frustrates love.

A dark, wet cloud passes overhead, blocking the sun. At the same moment, the old woman’s heart sinks with grief and her eyes flood with tears of loss; if only, they could go back to that happy day and find a way to blend the contrast of their personas. Though one child was assigned to be golden, and the other to be twilight, in that happy moment, the contrast worked as compliment. Was it jealousy that loomed and turned sisters to adversaries? Or was it as it seems to this old woman; that the golden child wanted to rule over the child made of twilight and when twilight came into her own, the one who shines even in competition with sun, couldn’t abide it. She knows deep down that neither of them can help the role they were assigned. For each there is no choice but to play it out. In heart, the old woman embraces her little sister, that cotton-topped little girl, and lovingly, forgives her(again) . Then more tears flood in realization that her forgiveness isn’t enough to restore them to sisterhood; it’s only half of what needs to be done. On the other half she must wait and never give up hope in the waiting.

When the longing is too much, she drifts backward to the moment that is part of her now, and warms her aches in the trust that only, loving sisters can know. Though trust is broken and takes two to mend, love remains. Where there is love, there is always hope for reconciliation.

Undistorted Joy

December 28, 2015

Words that pour from a fractured, patched together heart,

Sometimes, fly in a hailing storm of bullets!

Fired randomly in fear!

When a threat today echoes in the echoes of the traumas of the past;

Triggering an emotional storm; driving the broken one to posture in self-defense;

Paranoid and in confusion, vainly trying to prevent yesterday’s repetition;

There is no rhyme, no reason, and no sense!

No poetry, no prose powerful enough to muffle the bullets and protect

An unwitting target; when missiles, manufactured from thick layers of pain from the past,

Are fired! While the patched together one hides, thinking only of self protection;

Valiantly and covertly seeking to destroy those monsters lingering in closets of the mind;

Ghosts of long ago that haunt in the conflicts, the disagreements, the present threats;

Which quickly magnify and loom with all of the power of original monsters who shattered that heart,

Many years ago …may they find eternal rest in my forgiveness… and in letting them go…

As I die to myself…and submit further to the process until that process is completed…

Please forgive me (as I forgive them), my passive aggressive reflex!

Expressed as words that rained down on you as bullets! You the victim of my fear!

And my sometimes, inability to recognize the difference between then and now;

Those times when paranoia drives my reason under the bed with a shotgun,

To fire at everything and anything that dares to move!

Forgive me please, for internalizing my monsters in an effort to gain control,

Long enough… to patch this heart together and move forward.

Forgive me for pelting you with the bullets intended for them; Forgive this murder in my heart!

Expressed so passively; born in thick, deep layers of pain and swallowed aggression;

Please forgive me, let it all go, and live your life in peace, with abundant blessings!

Don’t allow these randomly fired bullets to lodge and remain to spread their poisonous infection,

That carries the sin of abuse from generation to generation to generation to generation…

Let it all end here!

I have seen the enemy of me and she is me.

This log in my eye has been lifted out and now, I understand.

I am truly, sorry for the pain my words caused!

I’m sorry you were caught in the path of my triggering!

My words that hurt you and triggered the echoing of your own painful past…

May we each walk into our futures, toward greater healing,

Experiencing the metamorphosis of faith,

Available to all in Christ;

Where shattered, mended hearts become new and the echoes of trauma are silenced,

In repentant hearts that by confession expel the poison, stopping the infection of sin;

Hearts purified by forgiving as we both are forgiven.

This is the place where love and justice meet to create lasting peace.

This is undistorted joy!

 

 

 

 

Joy in a Sonoran Rain

December 28, 2015

There is nothing more lovely than a Sonoran winter rain. Pouring silver; large drops weighted by the ice of the winter world that surrounds The Valley of the Sun. The ice that melts into rain before it hits the warm desert floor, as snow buries the surrounding mountain rim. The dry soil welcomes the steady feeding of moisture in ground cooled enough to receive it and even store it safely, deep down below the surface. The peace of acceptance fills the atmosphere, as the rain washes the resting desert clean. There is a sense of sorrow, as all that stood and appeared strong in the previous season is washed away and all debris is broken down to become one with the soil. This short, quiet space in time, labeled as winter in the Sonora, is appropriated to building the foundation of the new season to come. This water that falls from the heavens is worth more than gold and everything that lives in the green desert depends upon it for life and by the wisdom intrinsic to its design, the Sonoran Desert submits to the washing, the rearranging that comes by the sheer force of water. The normal state of drought is fully satiated as the water overflows to fill the lakes and reservoirs that will be so needed when the rainy season ends. This strange season, so uncharacteristic of the desert’s usual appearance, is necessary or the fierce heat that tests all Sonoran life in summer would be devastating. This low lying climate would be left void, without the teeming life it sustains, and become nothing but hard packed ground. No one could enjoy this wonderful Valley of the Sun if it were not for these cloudy, gray, wet days.

Mourning is a season most struggle to avoid but mourning is the time when the foundation of the future is laid. When it comes, it is best to accept it and let go of all that is being beat down and rearranged. God loves a broken, contrite heart and God’s presence is all encompassing when a tired, broken heart opens to Him. When sorrow pours from skies cloudy with gloom and thoughts of past sunny days bring a deep sense of loss in their vanishing, this is joy: no matter how chaotic or abhorrent such a season may seem, God has His fingers laced tightly around all of it and those who belong to Him. When we are weak and there is nothing to hold onto amid the rushing flood, God holds us close and is working all the pain to our future good. The surety in life is that our purpose in Him will be fulfilled. In trusting God peace is found, even in the midst of a severe storm. In acceptance of God’s Will is the power to utilize mourning, as time spent alone with God, as He satiates grief and fills our deep reservoirs with Truth. He fills all sorrowful, dry basins that will become life sustaining lakes in the future, with the joy found in Jesus. Even if our bodies are part of the refuse to be broken down and washed away, for those hidden in Christ, it is but a natural part of the overall cycle of life, which we are part of. In Christ, all endings are beginnings for life is eternal. In Jesus, a melancholy rain is lovely. A time to rest securely in God’s presence and drink in the sustenance of His Spirit and wait as the great wheel turns, assuring the continued spinning of the other smaller wheels, He encircles.

By God’s Love the Sonora remains green. By His grace, the sorrowful season passes and the desert blooms in a fantastic, colorful display of continuing life. This is the assured hope of faith.

Indigo Holiday

December 18, 2015

I am blue; thoughts downward swirl; deep purple;

The rainbows I like to spin now fade, growing dim;

Joy, only a yellow glow in sad mood’s onyx night;

Glimmering that haunts; by fault revealing scruple,

Things I don’t want to see, as I avoid a reality grim;

Gritty-brown, naked, splattered! Red just for spite!

Taste my memory so bitter! Causes blood to curdle!

Wear this outer mantle so carefully! Proper; Prim…

Too cool… raging fire burning within; hidden plight,

Simmers on Indigo Holiday; pain forced in a girdle;

Ornaments all golden hung on Tanenbaum’s limb…

I need peace not golden tinsel! Truth’s white light!

Guide my heart! End frenetic expectations’ garble!

Dispel purple gloom! Sad memories up to the brim!

Over-flow! Blue mood shadow darkening my sight…

Jesus! My Centerpiece! Softens hurt hard as marble!

Evaporate mists of Indigo Holiday’s traditional trim,

My triggered ghosts, turning all happiness to blight…

With yearnings for what should be; not this struggle;

Mourn! Please, Time make old pain-memories slim;

May every day be a blank slate reflecting Holy light!

Transform Indigo Holiday; Heal grief vexing in purple.

 

No matter what we believe about Christmas, there is no way to avoid being affected by this huge cultural event. Many people don’t feel happy and bright when the holidays roll around, as they are going through a difficult time or remembering a loss. Others have convictions about customs that put them in conflict with family members and friends. When Christmas hurts there is recourse for believers in stepping away from the tinsel and the high expectations and focusing instead on the Center Piece of God’s plan for mankind, Jesus Christ. In Him there is support for every grieving heart and comfort for all who struggle in this world. He is there for us every day even, on holidays and He has a plan to help each of us fulfill the plan God has for our lives. Jesus is reason when your world is turned upside down. In Him, every day is a Holy Day filled with His purpose and promise. There is healing joy in Jesus when you are unable to feel happy and bright.

 

 

 

A Time to Cry

December 16, 2015

Tears, bursting in a gush of misery! Streams over stinging red cheeks…

Tamp grief down? Later pay usury! I ignored the sounds heart speaks!

 

Finality has come! So long waiting! I didn’t cry! Tried contemplating,

Cover agony, by denial shimmery; Play pretend; Ignoring truth leaks!

Endurance breaks? Forget chivalry! Love is rearranged in time tweaks;

Hope against hope in time grating; Hearts crushed in longing; waiting…

Out in the cold, loneliness shivery! At last accept an ugly truth; Reeks!

 

Tear drops release in light silvery; washing dark pain away, as joy seeks

Happy days so long in the awaiting; Mourning allows sorrow’s abating…

From Mourning to Joy

December 16, 2015

When loss and sorrow knock on the door, there is no denying grief or the process of mourning. However, it is natural to recoil from the pain and very human to attempt to flee. Grief is as hot and dry as June in the desert, during a long drought. The body, heart, and soul shrivel with thirst when it ravages. When the tongue cleaves to the roof of the mouth and lips crack due to thirst, the high country calls through remembrances of alpine relief, at an altitude high above the suffering of the dry valley below. It seems logical then to dissociate from sad reality and avoid mourning by escaping to the high country. How easy it is to lose one’s self in meadows carpeted by colorful flowers, watered by the still-melting snow. In a mountain June when summer is just beginning, it can seem as if such a heavenly paradise could last forever. The land itself provides food and water enough to sustain the fanciful runaway seeking avoidance of a painful reality…at least, for a short season. Such cooling relief is found here, high above the scorching desert, enveloped in peaceful, majestic beauty! High granite cliffs, where the precious Columbine bloom, produce a special sense of insular safety, as large dark caves promise shelter from summer mountain rains. The grim reality and sorrowful drought of the desert grow more distant with each passing day and it’s so easy to imagine forever, remaining aloof in this comforting solitude.

Summers are brief in the mountains. Days soon pass into weeks and months, as the dry heat travels upward from the desert valley, making its way to the high peaks. The flowers fade and the green grasses mature, in browns and purple hued grays. Grief and mourning won’t be denied their due process and the sorrow of loss stalks its victims. None are wily enough to successfully hide from mourning or forever escape. The void of loss must be faced or it grows to become a starving black hole that no method of coping can assuage. Its ravaging is sure to devour everything valuable, leaving only the fantasy that keeps it growing. Only, truthful reckoning can satisfy it. The reality avoided is sure to reappear. Like a sudden reflection in a mountain stream that reveals the true state of self; of someone on the run, hiding in the mountains, with tangled hair, worn out clothes, and new wrinkles around glassy, delusional eyes. Cold nights with chilly winds, late summer hail-storms, and the leaves changing color, make it clear that the dark season is coming down fast and hard. Truth is present. Mourning can’t be avoided and facing it here, on the mountain in winter would likely, prove fatal. Hungry, sleepy bears and mountain lions (the rightful residents) will soon be claiming all caves. The desert run-away could easily, end up as prey. It’s time to head back down the mountain, to the valleys and the rivers where human beings live and face the reality that can’t be denied.

Acceptance is the beginning. Grief is the accounting. Mourning brings the tears that cleans and heal. An awful truth can bring overwhelming sadness but mourning releases joy, imprisoned in sorrow. Joy even grows stronger in those who embrace divine truth and endure. The joy of Jesus is buoyancy, when grief with sorrow floods our lives and threatens with drowning pain. In Christ we can face all things, do all things, and endure all things. Through faith, we’re given courage to stand and have no need for escape to the safety of some imagined mountain top. Faith is not a dissociative state but strength to endure life in the valleys and the power to overcome.