The grief rushes in, as a wave of numbing, crushing, cold despair crashing upon the shoreline of my spirit. Its breakers distract with their frothing, gleaming spray, while the undertow undermines the foundations at my feet. Joy and hope shift like so much sand, pulled out into the vast sea of roiling, storming, Holy Grief and Terror. Despair is tangible. Despair is crushing. It is not mine. It is not mine.
“Hold Fast,” He says, and His presence is soft, thick, good wool wrapped snug around me. We are wet, soaked in this ocean of Grief, but He keeps me warm even as wet wool can manage to do. My spirit wants to shatter under this strain, but He holds me up as the ground underneath me gives way. I think of the other part of the year, when the Holy Grief I bear witness to is not mine, is…
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