A friend describes it as a journey through a wretched wilderness, one wrought with fear and anxiety. Another recounts that it is the very thing that reaches inside her and steals the breath she draws life from, leaving her gasping and writhing on the floor.
It is overwhelming — grief and sadness — heaped up, piled on, with no end in sight.
And just when you cannot bear to hear any more, that surely you have reached some sort-of quota, a shadow crosses your own threshold, leaving you reeling with an endless supply of questions and precious few answers to cling too.
And I shake my fist at my God, and stomp my feet like a petulant child, my body seething with anger until the anger finally gives way — leaving only exhaustion in its wake. And it is then, when no other course makes sense, that I lift the gift that has been given to me and choke on the words I’ve sung my entire life:
Praise God from whom all blessings flow.
Praise Him all creatures here below.
Praise Him above ye heavenly host.
Praise Father, Son, and Holy Ghost.
So I ask . . . honestly, I don’t know what to ask today,
but if you feel moved to reply, I will respond.