Still pluggin away...

I have a couple more pages in Antigone and then I will start writing about it. Seriously, read it if you have a chance (first read a synopsis so you know what the heck is going on), it is so good. I'm really enjoying it.

Another poem maybe...

I measure every grief I meet
With analytic eyes;
I wonder if it weighs like mine,
or has an easier size.

I wonder if they bore it long,
or did it just begin?
I could not tell the date of mine,
It feels so old a pain.

I wonder if it hurts to live,
And if they have to try,
And whether, could they choose between,
They would not rather die.

I wonder if when years have piled-
Some thousands- on the cause
Of early hurt, if such a lapse
Could give them any pause;

Or would they go on aching still
Through centuries above,
Enlightened to a larger pain
By contrast with the love.

The grieved are many, I am told;
The reason deeper lies, -
Death is but one and comes but once,
And only nails the eyes.

There's grief of want, and grief of cold, -
A sort they call "despair";
There's banishment from native eyes,
In sight of native air.

And though I may not guess the kind
Correctly, yet to me
A piercing comfort if affords
In passing Calvary,

To note the fashions of the cross,
Of those that stand alone,
Still fascinations to presume
That some are like my own.

- Emily Dickinson

The first time I read this poem I had dissolved into tears by the second stanza. This really does describe the past year for me. Heartache and grief have shook the very core of who God has made me. Such deep, sorrowful grief. And then I have questions. How do I worship God when I all I feel like is crying? Why do I always end up crying in worship? It dawned upon me one day that maybe my tears were worship to God. Maybe He likes my tears.

A couple years ago I was listening to a lecture down in Fresno at ACTS Seminary and the lady was talking about her adopted daughter who was probably about 3 or 4 at the time. She said that her daughter would have severe temper tantrums where she would kick and scream and punch and need to let out her sadness and anger because she knew that this family was not her natural family. She knew that her adopted family loved her very much but she knew this family looked different than her. Her adopted mother called these tantrums "holding time". She would ask her daughter if she needed holding time and her daughter would climb into her lap and sob and kick and punch and do whatever she needed. Afterward her mother would just hold her and they would sit.

This lady suggested to us that maybe sometimes we need holding time with Christ. Where we can scream, punch, shout, kick our sorrows and anger at him. Where we can sob into His arms without judgement and with the knowledge of an everlasting love. I have often pictured this as I look to accept my past as it is and work at changing my future.