Grief. So full. Crafted from the scars of giants. May I always speak your name. May you remind me of every pair of hands that lowered me to the ground. May I hear your voice urging me to run for my very life. For my soul. Toward Him. Toward the crosses we stuff in pockets. My gratitude for who you always were and was shoved aside, and what you bore and what you had to bare, and the burdons we all carry in this world. May we all run for our very lives into the arms of the one whose hands we aim to heal on bended knee. My gratitude for each and every moment of prayer over your handmade prayer book. My gratitude for sticky mashmallows. For fishing poles. For the grace of God welcomed in our midst. May God, grant you the peace of eternal rest and joy – a joy like that we on earth cannot even imagine. Help me I pray to surely and fully gather in the heavy and worn ropes and chains that lift my drawbridge high into the bright blue sky. Its a new day 13.
