I sit in the narrative of Mary and Martha. In between stinks. Unexpected circumstances punch in the gut, making exhaling feel impossible. Who can fix this broken body? The shattered vision of what was anticipated? Four days. But who is keeping track of time when grief hits? Days and nights morph together figuratively and literally. No appetite. Because what on earth can possibly satisfy in the face of loss?
Why We Still Have Hope When Things Aren't Fixed
Why We Still Have Hope When Things Aren't…
Why We Still Have Hope When Things Aren't Fixed
I sit in the narrative of Mary and Martha. In between stinks. Unexpected circumstances punch in the gut, making exhaling feel impossible. Who can fix this broken body? The shattered vision of what was anticipated? Four days. But who is keeping track of time when grief hits? Days and nights morph together figuratively and literally. No appetite. Because what on earth can possibly satisfy in the face of loss?