Grief is like rain.
I can’t hold it back.
It changes my plans for the day,
for the week.
Grief, like thunder, is loud.
I cringe from the noise,
the thunderclaps,
the lightening flash.
I can’t think,
can’t plan,
can’t pray.
Grief turns the soil to mud
splashing my legs.
sucking my boots
If I try to walk faster,
to run,
to escape
it pulls me in deeper.
I lose my boots,
fall on my face,
hope submerged.
I must walk slowly,
gently,
lightly,
allowing grief to caress
and trickle down my face.
Grief is a season
that returns
again,
again,
and again.
For as long as there is earth
there will be rain.
Where there is life,
there will be death.
Where there is love,
there will be grief.
Seed time and harvest,
summer and winter,
sun and rain.
Grief, like rain,
is found wherever there is life,
wherever there is love.
For the cold do not cry,
the hard do not break,
the dead to not mourn.
So I lift my face to the rain
let the drops roll down my face,
watch the trees bow their branches,
hear the roots soak in the strength.
For grief points to a Creator who made life,
a Savior who gave His life,
a Healer who gives life.
Grief is a companion,
a fellow traveler.
Maybe—
a friend.
Gina Martin – February 2024
