I know a few folk who are having some bad days.
Time will tell if they’re the worst days of their lives.
I would hope they’d be spared too many that are worse.
This poem from Connor Gwin resonates with their experience.
Sit down (or fall down). Anywhere will do.
Wherever you are, stop. Breathe. Cry.
There is no quick fix or easy path,
no way out but through, so sit.
Take these words (or don’t). Take nothing
but that which holds or calms or joins this pit
you find yourself in. Here, in this place,
even good news can ring untrue.
No matter what you do it won’t undo
the moments and movements that led to this.
So sit and pray, but not artfully, beautifully.
Let your words fall apart with you.
Shattered, tear-soaked prayers like those
from dirt or cross or grief green garden.
Jesus won’t make this better, not if better means go away.
He will cry with you. I will cry with you too.
He does and I do and the grace of this day might only be
shared tears and good food and the silence that follows why.
The over-under on your suffering is impossible to know.
I cannot say it will all be okay. Tomorrow
may only be the second worst day;
But that is tomorrow (of course) and this is today.
So sit or crumble or pray and take these words (or don’t).
Toss them up like glitter or else throw them away.