Feeling My Way Through

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Feeling My Way Through

There was a time,
Not so very long ago,
That I could not feel
Any emotion, save anger.

Tears, rarely, if ever, came.
Anger felt safer,
And made me bigger,
Louder – powerful.

Then came the moment
You asked me to cry
But to my astonishment
The tears would not come.

Try, though I may,
They refused to flow.
I was frozen and numb.
My heart was solid stone.

I would have given up
But for Your Promise,
“I will give her
A heart of flesh.”

Thus began the breaking
Open of the prison doors
Deep within my being
One lock at a time.

Oceans of uncried tears
Threatened to overwhelm,
But You were there
As Comforter and Helper.

So many stops and starts,
So many wars fought,
While breaking through.
So much confusion and fear.

Holding tightly to the keys
Behind countless bolted doors.
Too timid and scared
To respond to Your gentle knock.

So much anger toward You.
Holding fast to all my weaponry.
Yet desperately desiring
Your tender embrace.

Will I let go?
Will I surrender?
Can I trust the One
Who claims to love me?

I bravely whisper a yielded, yes.
Weaponry lays scattered at my feet,
As You rush to my side,
Engulfing me in all that You are.

No longer isolated,
Imprisoned, abandoned.
Walking through every doorway
Feeling every hurt and abuse.

Choosing to forgive.
Choosing to release.
Receiving mercy,
Healing and freedom.

Feeling my way through
The sorrow and grief
One small step at a time
With Your hand holding mine.

~ Laurie Pontious-Andrews

Notes & Quotes
The Gate of the Year
The Mortal Storm

I said to a man who stood at a gate “give me a light that I may tread safely into the unknown”, and he replied, “go out into the darkness and put your hand into the hand of God. That shall be to you better than a light and safer than a known way.”

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About unabashedhope

The name Unabashed Hope comes from my favorite poem by Emily Dickinson. Unabashed means not embarrassed, disconcerted or ashamed. I believe Emily's poem, Hope is the Thing with Feathers, says it best: Hope is the thing with feathers That perches in the soul, And sings the tune without the words, And never stops at all, And sweetest in the gale is heard; And sore must be the storm That could abash the little bird That kept so many warm. I've heard it in the chilliest land And on the strangest sea; Yet, never, in extremity, It asked a crumb of me.

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