The Earth Groans (And You Are Groaning With It)

Your voice echoed for what seemed an eternity. Not where others could hear it--just reverberating from wall to wall inside this mind that can't fix what's broken, not this time. This is a job for the heart, bleeding slow for you, pumping the same rhythm that yours beats, praying wordless prayers and pondering John's head on the breast of Christ.

Your interior castle is more intricate than most. So easy to lose oneself inside such a place. I would call out to you, I would gather others to seek you out, but I know that yours are hands that need to grope from wall to wall, finding one room after the next, grasping at locked doors before finding those that a cool breeze has blown open. 

You in your wounds, you lost in this labyrinth constructed part of God and part of man, you have shown me beauty. You who are so snared in the web of self-reflection, self-analysis, self-denigration, you who long to be a saint like Francis, like Thomas, like all those faces gazing at you from the walls of this church where you kneel praying, you have helped me see the face of God. 

You are cracked, yes. Imperfect, you yearn for perfection. Ah, I know. 

I know.

I pray you are granted grace to be patient in the hands of God.