Monday, October 27, 2014

The Night Will Hold You

(This picture was taken by my husband - the night sky over the corn field 
across the street from us - isn't he amazing?) 


When the grief you carry 
wears your face into a thousand 
heavy lines, when the sadness 
feels like a knife splitting 
your very body in two, 
night will come at last. 

With the children tucked safe 
in their beds, you will stand 
in the doorway of your own 
darkened room and the night 
will welcome you with its wide, 
and gentle embrace.  

How can I explain that this 
is what you need, what you 
have waited for, this knowing 
that the darkness is nothing 
to fear?  You will lie down 
on your bed, half curled 
around the old, old wound, 
with your face turned toward 
the windows.  Weeping, 
your eyes will search 
outlines of trees, the few 
bright stars captured in your 
window’s frame.  

Now that you are no longer afraid, 
the night will hold you with its velvet 
love, the emptiness of the darkness 
sidling up against you as the well 
of grief pours out. 

“There's something comforting 
about the darkness,” you will tell 
your husband when he finds you there. 
Instinctively, like the night, he will curl 
himself around you offering not words, 
but himself to hold you, his flesh 
echoing in physicality the sweet 
silent night that draws you close.   

This post is linked with Playdates with God and Unforced Rhythms.

14 comments:

  1. A beautiful photo. It is amazing the comfort we can feel in the night when our husbands curl there with us, holding us silently. It reminds me that our God has indeed made us one. May you continue to rest in His comfort!

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  2. What a lovely offering of words, Kelly. May the Lord continue to comfort you as you do your "grief work" and may He continue to hold you in His darkness of "velvet love."

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  3. There is something comforting about night now - everything's done ( or all that's going to get done) - and I can just rest, invite the healer in to treat our wounds of the day - to bind them up - and, it just wows me that God knew we needed a husband to comfort us like that! beautiful photo and poem full of real!

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    1. I heard an evening prayer once (benedictine, maybe?) : What is done has been done, what has not been done, has not been done, Let it go. Seems like a good way to end the day.

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  4. Hi Kelly! I can just sigh and see myself in that doorway at night. The end of the day means "I made it. There's hope." And give myself to the One who made me.
    From Unforced Rhythms,
    Ceil

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    1. Too many days, I'm too tired by the end to think anything! This was a rare night when our older kids were away and the twins already in bed. Thanks for stopping by!

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  5. Oh... Kelly. Came by from Unforced Rhythms and this... oh... this. I get it. And your lack of fear of grief, of dark, your allowing it to embrace you (and thereby allowing Jesus ((and your husband)) to encounter you in it)... it's just rich. Not to mention beautifully written. Thank you for this. Wow. Just wow. What a gift.

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    1. Thank you Dana. I realized that night that THIS is what God had been preparing me for all last year as I walked through a time of deep darkness. It took a long time for me to get over my fear, a long time to trust God's guiding presence, but now I'm so grateful for the gift of knowing how sweet the darkness can be. Thanks for your kind words.

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  6. Wow, the sweetness of darkness. I'm not sure I've yet seen it as a comfort, until these words. Kelly, really, I don't wish to sound like a broken record, but - your poetry is so moving and clear. All of this, these beautiful words, sweeps me up in a deep knowing, even if we bear some different griefs. Your imagery is so timely for me today, friend, as I prepare to see my counselor. I have walked in and out of darkness these past few years, and I sense I'm heading back in, at least in some regards - facing old and present griefs again. And this, in particular, speaks to me:
    "You will lie down
    on your bed, half curled
    around the old, old wound,
    with your face turned toward
    the windows. Weeping,
    your eyes will search
    outlines of trees, the few
    bright stars captured in your
    window’s frame."

    I can't tell you what a comfort it is to read this. And also, I'm encouraged by your bravery in facing the dark, the old, old wounds, of no longer fearing it. I pray I can take that with me today and the days to come.

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    1. Isn't it good to have friends on the journey together? I do want to be clear, though, I am still afraid of the old wounds, they still hold power over me, but the darkness (the not knowing of how or when I will move through this place of pain) is no longer frightening to me. I believe God reveals wounds slowly, one bit at a time, just as we are ready to face them.

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  7. Your poetry, Kelly, never ceases to move me in ways I didn't even know I needed moving. So, so blessed to know you friend.

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