The Size of Sorrow

hands-2

(original photo taken by Jenna Foster)

I wrote this poem three days after asking my doctor to put me back on medication for depression. Again. The words came pouring out of me that Friday morning, after I read some psalms and tried to pray. The kids were at school and John was at the gym while I sat crying in a recliner by the window. I’ve had many sad mornings in the last ten months, but I’m looking forward to a different kind of Fall this year. I still get worried, anxious, and tearful from time to time, but yesterday I realized some differences in the me-from-last-Fall and the me-from-now.

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Amateur Prayer Hour

Sometimes it feels
like God
is my wife,

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An Unfinished List

bucket-list

Ever since I learned how to make a list, I’ve been documenting my life. I used to make lists of all the towns I’ve lived in, all the states and all the addresses, as well as all the schools, teachers and best friends I’ve ever known. It made me feel better to see these things written down in black and white, and it soothed the fear that I might forget important details. Perhaps I was trying to make sense of all the moving my family had done. Perhaps I thought examining those lists would help me come up with a formula to help figure out why life was so unpredictable. Perhaps I was hoping to use that formula to solve this equation called life, and then I’d be able to live the rest of my days with a different remainder.

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To Look at Her

boots

You’d never think
she was the sort

to hide a flask away in her sock drawer

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Could you please pass the mustard?

I burned my finger taking a casserole out of the oven a while back. It was a Friday night, and some old friends were visiting. “Ouch!” I yelped, because I couldn’t help it; but I was in the kitchen all by myself, so no one heard me. It really hurt, but calling everyone’s attention to this newly burning pain was not my first response. Instead, I felt embarrassed that I hadn’t been more careful, so I blamed myself rather than the hot oven. Also, since these were friends we hadn’t seen in a long time and I wanted to make a good impression, I chose not to interrupt the smooth flowing conversation in the other room. Instead, I made myself a glass of ice water to drink and held it so the tip of my finger was submerged in the cold liquid.

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