Important Disclaimer

Since I currently have several employers/supervisors/churches/etc., please know that none of the words on my blog represent them or their beliefs. This blog is my own creation.

It also does not represent my children's perspective, nor my mother's; they think I am funny, but misguided.
(Quick update: only my mother thinks I'm funny now.)

Monday, March 17, 2014

The Days Are For Joy

I am weary with my moaning; 
     every night I flood my bed with tears; 
     I drench my couch with my weeping.
My eyes waste away because of grief;
     they grow weak because of all my foes.
~Psalm 6:6-7

I once visited a man who was sick in prison
dying in prison.
I guess we're all dying,
which he wryly pointed out to me.
He was a very sweet soul
and who knows??
Perhaps he made it out through his dreams
and took his mother and sister and nieces out of the city.
On what parole?
On what job?
On what money?
I don't know.
But we talked about it often enough:
that dream.

He told me how he never slept well
He woke up in cold sweats
bones aching
eyeballs twisting
flesh burning
Oh, he was very very sick
I read him Psalm 6 on a whim
and he said, "THAT'S IT!
He took my Bible and said he was keeping it
and who am I to argue with a 

Next week I came back
And he read me Psalm 22
"Listen! This is magnificent!"
But I am a worm, and not human
     scorned by others, and despised by the people
All who see me mock at me
     they make mouths at me, they shake their heads

I am poured out like water
     and all my bones are out of joint
     my heart is like wax
     it is melted within my breast
my mouth is dried up like a potsherd
     and my tongue sticks to my jaws
     you lay me in the dust of death

He was laughing with joy
that someone else knew his nights
"When was this written?" he asked
Three thousand years perhaps
And he was astounded.

"What is a potsherd?" he wondered

Perhaps the hardest part of his wilderness
and the hardest part of my own desert
Is that it is not always easy to know
what to lament
or when

in any give moment there are still
pending decisions
not always my own
usually not my own
that alter the landscape
for better or worse

how much energy does one give
to lament
the loss of 
a not yet lost child/friend/lover/job/home?
Shall we wait until all is lost
to feel?

he would have had wise words for me
my prison friend
he would have said
to save the grief for the night
when you can't sleep anyway
the days are for joy.


  1. These words are poignant to me as I wait to find out if a dear friend has terminal cancer.


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