I trek through deep snow with brother
he speaks of school friends and sitcoms
Big castles face the lake
and look out at the storm with dark square eyes
They look beautiful and extravagant, but inside they must be cold, with a little stove trying to pump heat throughout the hollow rooms
The cold is eating me the same and my heart tries to pump heat, enough to hold my smile in place
enough to keep me from wading into a ball in the corner,
but its a fight.
I write this then backspace
highlight and delete
Is it okay to be fighting?
to be tossing in the night as tears stream from my eyes?
to wake up on the floor with my bed made, and room spotless because I am trying to keep things tidy and together?
I would like to break out and scream, roll on the floor and kick my feet in the air,
The cold would be so surprised it would grab frost and snow and run across the lake,
Away from me and never to return
This morning before sandwiches and potato chips we spoke of grace as our sword
a small community of believers huddled and studied, I listened
God does not take things away. The cold will always come, but he will give us a sword to fight it with. Grace like warm woolen mittens to put on and face the storm.