June 24: Poem from "Kyrie," Lamentations, Hope

Poem from Kyrie

by:  Ellen Bryant Voigt

I cried unto God with my voice . . . he gave ear unto me.
In the day of my trouble I sought the Lord;
     my sore ran in the night, and ceased not;
     my soul refused to be comforted.
I remembered God, and was troubled;
     I complained, and my spirit was overwhelmed.
I am so troubled I cannot speak.

Will the Lord cast off for ever?  Is his mercy
     clean gone for ever?  doe his promise fail
     for evermore?  Has God forgot to be gracious?
     has he in anger shut up his tender mercies?

Who is so great a God as our God?
     who has declared his strength among the people?

                    *********************

This poem.  Tonight.  It sort of captures my current state of mind and heart.  A lamentation, very much like ones in the Biblical psalms.  Starting out in utter despair and darkness, and moving toward something akin to hope and praise.

I'm not sure I'm quite at the stage of hope and praise yet, though.  Still in the muddy trenches, fighting my way out of a pretty bruising battle with the blues.  I'm searching for the sun, but it's nowhere in my skies at the moment.  However, I'm going to try to write my way to some kind of miracle tonight.

I know, on the vast scale of tragedy and turmoil in the world, my problems are microscopic.  I'm not starving.  Or homeless.  My health is pretty good.  I have two great kids.  Jobs that mostly pay the bills, albeit not always on time.  My daughter finished her first year of college with a 4.0 GPA.  Pretty good considering how Covid-19 ended the semester on such a surreal note.  My son is funny and strong-willed, two qualities that will help him greatly succeed in the future.  Like I said, I've hit the jackpot in a lot of ways.

Yet, I'm truly struggling in other parts of my life.  Seeing things fall apart, and I'm not able to put them back together.  Because of that, I'm feeling like a complete failure, even though I've done everything in my power to avoid this collapse.  Yet, now all I can do is stand back and watch the forest burn to the ground.

So, where in all that mess do I find my miracle tonight?  At the end of every lamentation comes a ray of light.  That's how lamentations work.  Usually, it goes something like this:  But in you, O God, I seek refuge.  You are my strength and courage.  You are my hope.  

Emily Dickinson says that "'Hope' is the thing with feathers--/That perches in the soul--".

Gerard Manley Hopkins writes "Of now done darkness I wretch lay wrestling with (my God!) my God."

Joy Harjo says that the world "begins at the kitchen table.  No matter what, we must eat to live."

So, searching for that feathered thing in my ribs, wrestling with my Higher Power, I sit at my kitchen table with my son, listen to him play video games with his friends, shouting at them, laughing, speaking a language of computer I can only appreciate like I appreciate someone speaking Portuguese.  Loving the sounds without the attachment of meanings.  I consume this moment like chocolate cake, dark and sweet.

And for that kitchen table miracle, Saint Marty give thanks.