The invasion and theft gouging a wound of vulnerability
The heartache of a life willfully taken by its owner hushing those around me.
Words cruelly announcing a beloved life taken by its maker too soon
A phone call to share a joy instead sharing the sorrows of pain and devastating consequences
The loss for words plagues me. Empathy soaks my face. Guilt darkens my soul.
Though the fig tree should no blossom
nor fruit be on the vines
the produce of the olive fail
and the fields yield no food
the flock be cut off from the fold
and there be no herd in the stalls
yet I will rejoice in the Lord
I will take joy in the God of my salvation
God, the Lord, is my strength
My faith is my joy independent of my sorrow.