this collision

Gently now, dear one. Gently.
Don’t you think we were always on our way here, here, to this place where grit and grace collide in equal space and time?
We still have time, we have so much time.
Don’t you think we were calling each other home somehow? A different home, but found through this place where we can each make sense of these lives we have lived? Oh, the lives we have lived.
I bet you never knew your hands were stronger than any others. I know you feel weak, but I know how much you’re still holding up, holding strong, holding true.
I’ve got this now. And for a moment I can hold it all while you rest.
A moment when both you and I can try to make sense of what we were called here to do.
What is calling you? Do you hear my siren song? We may differ in purpose and aim and intention, yet here we find ourselves all the same, together, showing up like we always promised we would.
You trusted, time and again, that we would find ourselves on solid ground. Sometimes I left you to hold all the pieces of this ground alone, while I flitted and floundered and found myself buried deep in a fiery core where I hid and I screamed and I desperately pleaded for something, anything to keep hold of.
But you found a way to hold it. You held it, all, still, steady and strong.
And it feels shaky now, oh, I know how shaky it feels underfoot, and your hands are tired, those hands that have held me up and held me whole more times than i have acknowledged or grasped.
But let me grasp it now.
Let me see it and hold onto all that we need to keep strong and true and whole, and then we will meet back here. Again and again we will come back to this space, to us, through your unwavering faith in me and in you. And this. Oh, this.
This is where I can find my faith, over and over, undone and remade, dying and reborn, time after time.
This was not an ending.
It was a calling to show up. A calling to keep showing up; real and raw and ready, ready to be here, together then apart then together again, but never alone.
No, never, ever alone.
I don’t have much to give. I cannot move you, nor would I want to, and I cannot walk your path in these difficult days. But I can hold your hand and I can hold you whole, just like you have always held me.
And I can trust. Just like you have taught me to trust, and trust and trust.
This collision was never intended to destroy us. It arrived to remind us to build and to build and to keep on building.
There’s so much for your hands to build yet, so much our hands can build together, but right now you’re tired, you’re oh so tired, so I’ll keep holding on while you steady your grip and then we’ll begin to rebuild, together again.
I’ve got this. I’ve got this dear one, as steady and as strong as you’ve been holding me all along.

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2 thoughts on “this collision

  1. Hello! I’ve enjoyed your posts, so I’ve nominated you for the Liebster Award. If you’d like to participate, you can find the rules and questions I have for you on the “Liebster Award!” post of my blog. Thank you!

    Liked by 1 person

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