Today is the 5th anniversary of losing my Ebony Dog. Missing him, I sorted through my blog posts about him. They tell the story pretty well.🐾
If you only read one, I suggest this one:
https://www.
In rough chronological order, here are all:
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We are fine. There have been a few severe storms in our area and more elsewhere in America’s Tornado Alley. Our property has not been damaged so far this year, but we have experienced that in the past. This poem came from memory and empathy. I didn’t want kind Crumbles to worry needlessly ❤️🩹
The morning after the tempest
Reminds me of waking from surgery.
Do the trees still have all their limbs?
Are they stable on their feet
Or do they need a caution-tape bracelet
Warning, “Fall risk?”
Are the eyes of our home intact or shattered?
Is its crown shingled or scalped?
Are the neurons of the power grid still firing,
Or has a lightning stroke cut off
Extremities of neighborhoods from the power station,
Impairing communication and mobility,
Disabling normal work?
Is the lifeblood of clean water still pumping
Through PVC arteries and cast-iron veins
Into capillaries of household fixtures?
The morning after storms,
The numbness of adrenaline anesthetic subsides,
Pins and needles of anxiety pricking the edges of my thoughts,
Or pain roaring back, seizing minds in its grip.
We assess the damage,
Bandage wounded homes,
Prepare dead trees for the fire,
Set about the hard work of recovery and repair,
Grief and lamentation, tallying losses, claiming insurance,
Learning what normal looks like now.
“Blessed [happy, spiritually prosperous, favored by God] is the man who is steadfast under trial and perseveres when tempted; for when he has passed the test and been approved, he will receive the [victor’s] crown of life which the Lord has promised to those who love Him.”
James 1:12 AMP
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| Joan of Arc cast in bronze, seated on a bench with her sword in her hands. Trees and garden foliage are blurred in background. |
About suffering—
Which saint said, purportedly,
If this is how You treat Your friends, no wonder You have so few?
If this is how You bless Your friends, Lord,
With trials and testings, hard-pressed to within an inch of life,
No wonder You have so few.
All one must do—so simple, really—is stay beneath the trial,
Not cry, “Uncle,” not tap out, not forfeit,
Just stay under the load, abide in the wrestle, not let go until He blesses.
Yet in the weight of distresses and difficulties,
When the furnace burns with sevenfold heat, there is no “just” about remaining.
Steadfastness takes supernatural strength when (almost) every cell cries out for relief.
Feats of Hercules bear no comparison with the courage required to stay under
Bone-crushing, breath-stealing, relentless load,
Knocked to knees, knocked to all fours, knocked prostrate in the dust,
Buried beneath the rubble of earthly hope
But not surrendering faith in God who raises the dead.
In the weary groaning of the waiting world,
We remember for each other, midwives of hope,
Reminding of promises that coming joy is worth the current pain,
For we know we cannot always remember for ourselves.
We spur one another on, crying out encouragement when
The thin veil parts enough to glimpse our Brother under the load alongside—
I see Him with you! I see Him in you!
His strength keeps from us one gram more suffering than needed
For our good and for His glory.
His Spirit in us intercedes—
Hold on—just one more moment—
And faith will be sight.
Stand firm to the end.
Finish well,
Steadfast.
We need not burst across a finish line, break the tape.
Just stay. Stay in trust; stay under test.
The happy man keeps faith to final heartbeat,
Outlasting affliction in love for Him who outlasted death itself,
Who loved us first, loves us still, loves us through.
The crown of life will glow with bone-rejoicing, breath-stealing pearls
Produced by the rubble of our buried hopes.
He who loved us first will love us to the end,
Adorning those who love Him back with life and love eternal,
And the agony of decades will seem as heavy and prolonged as a single snowflake
Alongside the glory Christ has won for, with, and in us.
Blessed be Christ, the steadfast under trial,
Who completes His suffering by suffering in ours,
Who transforms our suffering by suffering with us,
Who sanctifies our suffering by His presence,
Who sustains our suffering with His promises.
How happy the person who stays beneath the load appointed
Because Christ abides there too.
The sun declines in western sky. Withdrawn
Are clarity of light and hue; brought on,
Long shadows, foggy veils, the sacred hush
Of darkling valley, far from pastures lush.
The golden hour rays play hide and seek,
Illuminate her face with glorious peek
Of unveiled radiance. Then it flies away;
The light of smiling eyes fades, vesperal gray.
Sundowning steals her stories; details dim,
Degrade and recombine in moment’s whim.
The twilight of unknowing steals the one
Who knew me knit together, blood and bone.
In Shadowlands, I clasp my hands round hers,
Jeremiah 9:17-18 NIV
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| Bronze sculpture of Mother Teresa, from Dallas Blooms 2023 |
Where are the wailing women?
The sackcloth saints weeping with Rachel for her children,
The children bereft of childhoods, futures, parents, life?
Who will lament with our brothers and sisters half-dead, beaten, lying in the road,
Robbed of health, love, livelihood, hope?
We have left undone the good we ought
And done instead what we should not;
There is no health in us.
We have forsaken Your ways
And followed the stubbornness of our own hearts:
Lovers of self, lovers of money,
Lovers of power and riches,
Lovers of influence and fame,
Lovers of self, not lovers of God or neighbor.
We have averted our gaze from suffering
And passed by on the other side of the road.
Where are the ash-crowned mourners
Lamenting the loss of life
And lack of love for least of these?
The voice of Abel’s blood cries out to God Almighty
From the dust to which he has returned.
We are indeed our brother’s keeper,
And keep him we have not.
Revive us, O Lord. Give us Your eyes to perceive
The brokenness our dull hearts can’t feel or blind eyes see.
You hear the cries of the destitute and bind up broken hearts.
In all our afflictions You were afflicted.
You carried our griefs and sorrows, not only sin.
Who will weep with you at the tomb of Lazarus?
Who will be Your hands and feet among a shattered, starving generation?
Give us Your courage, love, and grace
To crawl under the overwhelming burdens,
Shoulder to shoulder with suffering,
To love the sick, sorrowful, and imprisoned
In body or spirit, in illness or addiction,
In poverty, loneliness, or despair—
And so lavish love on You.
Raise up the wailing women, the sackcloth saints, the ash-crowned mourners
With your tender mercies overflowing broken hearts.
Raise up ash-crowned mourners,
And use their tearful prayers, through Your Spirit,
For the healing of the nations.
-crlm, 4 May 3023, National Day of Prayer
