To everyone who's ever been here.
The last glimmer of light was swallowed up by the earth as the sun set behind the rocky peaks that cast daunting shadows on her path. It was in this place that she wrapped a blanket of disappointment around her broken body and laid her head on a pillow of sorrow. There was no comfort to be discovered, and yet in some distorted way, there was solace in the familiarity of her pain. It had become a part of her, a seed that had sprouted and spread its pollen into every cell. At least it was hers, and no one could rob her of it like they had of everything else she once possessed and believed in.
A dainty rusted mirror with intricate floral designs revealed a reflection she cared not to partake of. Eyes once bluer than the bluest sky reflected in a still pond now spoke the language of dull gray clouds on a winter day. The vibrant color that once adorned her cheeks had faded into a muted tone reserved for the dead. She might have been dead. Some days she actually believed she was.
The well that was once bubbling over in her soul had been ravaged by a drought that left her cracked and dry. The budding flowers had withered into dust. And yet, the constant ache in her heart reminded her that she was still alive. Each night, her eyes were tightly sealed by a cascading flood of salty tears that carried her dreams down a river that flowed into the open sea. The doubts haunted her dreams like demons waiting to devour.
When the sun rose each morning, the droplets of water-the vessels which carried her hopes and dreams-evaporated into the air and were soon forgotten by the noon sun, which governed the day and offered no hint of shade for a weary soul. Forgotten. Her limbs responded in defiance, the blood ceasing to flow in their veins. She climbed to the top of a mountain by willpower alone and claimed her final resting place.
As she inhaled what would be her final breath, the heavens opened and a light mist showered her body. Skin, blood, bones, heart began to come alive. The well, no longer empty, watered her soul where hope had once been. It would be again.
At least there is hope for a tree: If it is cut down, it will sprout again, and its new shoots will not fail. Its roots may grown old in the ground and its stump die in the soil, yet at the scent of water it will bud and put forth shoots like a plant. Job 14:7-9.
