Do you hear the silence in the tomb—hard and lifeless—vacuous hopes of my heart buried in a borrowed grave with one who would save us?
Do you hear the silence in the streets where palms, faded and brittle, blow to the wadis by dry desert winds—blow along with our visions of an overcoming respite?
And the pain of that black moment has dissolved in my tears and loss, and we mourn for him, but probably more for ourselves—myself.
And in the weeping and the regularity of another’s day, a great silence fills and empties me of will and belief. Behind my eyes, inside my head, the palpable quiet pushes out hope and in my hands where once we held his bread and wine, I hold despair, pressed down, dark, and bloody.
Apronhead 
I read this and was filled with sadness for you, along with admiration for your eloquence. I could never have spoken of or described my struggles with depression so honestly and well. If this is where your spirit is right now, I am praying for you.
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Thank you. It is putting myself in the place of those followers between Good Friday and Easter, but I must admit I walk those steps sometimes, too. Sunday’s resurrection seems far off when you are in the dark betweens.
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Reblogged this on Apronhead.
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