Every once in a great while
the things that have hurt me most
in this life:
the times that have been hardest
when I felt least likely to survive,
the fear, the betrayal,
the loneliness, the questions
of faith and identity and simple worth,
having been weathered,
and processed, overcome,
and even, somehow,
embraced
transform into
the possibility of other good.
On the best and most holy days,
these old stones I carry
make for someone else
a bridge to better.
I will never claim gratitude
or divine intention
for the undue
suffering of life,
but I will give thanks,
and call it miracle,
and God, and grace:
that all that must be carried—
the weight that nearly breaks us—
can sometimes, one day, become
the hope that carries
someone else.
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Looking forward to the published book of your poems.
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