Rotted Logs.

In the days of my despair you are graceful. You are kind, like a skillful nurse you attend to my sorrow with both patience and authority. Never pushing me, but instead you wait for me. You still wait. Thank you Lord, for remaining by my side, for never once mirroring or even countering my sadness, but in turn waiting for me to mirror and crave your serenity. I'm not there, yet. Some days the grief subsides, my lungs expand, and the weight that seems to press against my eyes is lightened. More days than not, I feel like a rotted log, tumbling uncrontrollably down a steep hill toward your riverbed. Always toward your riverbed, waiting desperately for you to fill my hollowness, and you rivers of assurance to overtake my sorrrow once more. And you do, again and again. Amen.