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Because it brings Him glory,

He asks us to stick with the hard stuff—

Tears press, threatening to spill in the darkness…

Hands gripping the wheel, she struggles to stay centered between white and yellow lines,

heading home to aloneness, toward brokenness,

to slip into a cold bed…

where the dam will once again release

fresh tears

flowing freely…

crusted stains on cheeks chilled in morning light,

now washed, patted dry,

yet moist again as she stares across the glass into empty eyes,

wondering… wishing…

But longings fade and hope no longer resides nearby.

What to do? I don’t know anymore… and don’t know that I care…

Marriage, a shell, teetering, too close to being entirely dissolved,

distant children scattered, wayward,

relations occupied elsewhere,

friends too few, and those, too busy—weary of her discontent…

Dreams vanished,

trust splintered, both hers and his,

anger, pressure, defeat, regret,

future dismal.

Nothing more than a charade…

Nothing left for us here…

Why go on…?

a woman's tears, USMC-04952

Because it brings Him glory,

it’s still right to keep doing right—

Overlooked, left out, rejected…

this one so eager to be a part of life whirling around,

to be included, her presence noticed, her goodness appreciated—

I know there’s goodness inside, she insists,

Don’t they see, I have value, too?

Not many listen when words struggle to break free.

And hardly any show interest, give attention, or care, for her.

Who is there to discover sweetness cocooned,

and a quick mind beneath un-styled hair?

Why keep trying…

Why do good when acceptance is easier by doing wrong…?

clock-64265_640 

Because it brings Him glory,

we can bear the unbearable with patience—

Hours crawl by, on the clock beside the bed,

both relics of her past,

 as she rocks gently in the worn out chair,

reading of adventures, travels in others’ lives…

from dawn to dusk, midnight to daylight,

her life on hold, sacrificing dreams,

caring for the aged body that birthed her, mothered her.

Crippled, helpless, parent now wholly dependent on child,

her loved one too often silent, except for an occasional moan…

eyes unseeing,

ears no longer tuned to children’s laughter or daughter’s chatter

or husband’s praise,

tongue mute…

yet beating beneath fragile ribs—

framing vital organs, now loosing strength and purpose—

rests her mother’s heart,

set to wind down and stop altogether one day soon,

the doctor suggested.

But that was many months ago,

and still the aged lives, barely, a breath at a time…

And the dutiful, weary child still cares daily, weekly,

meeting needs, extending comfort

to a body no longer able to recognize, nurture, affirm.

Why sustain a life languished, useless…

while death hovers so close…?

To be continued…

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