Good Grief

The monstrous clouds had billowed in and brought with them the rain.
The forecast promised sunny skies, but those were done away.

I saw it not approaching—the thunderous night ahead.
Hatches best be battened down lest comfort turn to dread.

I sheltered in and lit a fire to wait this tempest out.
But soon the gale began to swell; the unknown rolled about.

The eve grew long—I looked outside, destruction growing worse.
Though what else could there be to do but painfully observe?

With some time the torrent died into a steady shower,
Just to leave a better view of all it had devoured.

The ruin of my flower beds, the pergola in shambles;
The pool awash with dead debris, the devastated brambles.

I stood in silence at the scene not sure where I should start.
And then the doorbell bellowed out—and just as soon, my heart.

A man stood dripping on the porch when lamps were low and spent.
I asked not for his company; he asked not for consent.

I knew not of his coming—no herald to announce him.
Where would he stay? What were his plans? And should he be allowed in?

I’d call him not a stranger, but neither call him friend…
Yet all the luggage at his side portended time he’d spend.

He crossed my doorway silently, just tracking in the mire.
No kindly face upon him; his eyes both grim and tired.

Before a comment I could give, he found my favorite chair.
He quickly claimed the seat of peace—I wondered what he’d spare.

It’s now been weeks and still he’s here; I see him somewhat less.
Admittedly, initially he was not at his best.

He brought with him a darkness—a disposition fraught
With heaviness and suffering, a plague of chronic thought.

At times his wheels are spinning; cries echo through my bones.
And when they’re not he’s lost in thought, just pacing all alone.

I’ll catch him trace an empty room where joy and hope were due;
He’ll sit and hum a lullaby—sometimes he weeps there, too.

These days I hear him whisper of love and all its costs,
Of gardens kept from blooming when spoiled by the frost.

He sticks around when good times come—he’s in between it all,
The saddest of all party guests who lingers in the hall.

I wake and think him gone for good, no trace of him all day;
But should a child smile at me, he’ll rear his sullen face.

I’m wearied of his presence—he’s here to what avail?
He tarries all around me in this hopeless, painful jail.

I’ve asked him what he wants; he’s never once replied.
For all the time he’s lingered here I’ve mostly heard him sigh.

There at my door he showed his face and forced me into sorrow—
The night the storm laid waste my hopes and stole the bright tomorrow.

No longer can I bear this so I call out to the Throne:
“Pack up the clouds, bring back the sun, and take him from my home.”

And there within my hollow cry, when light seemed far withdrawn,
A gentle Voice tore through the pain and said, “You’re not alone.”

And with my head pressed to the ground, I see the sweat and blood
Of Him who met my weary guest the night His hour had come.

He sat there in Gethsemane, attending to our Lord;
He stood beside the Son of God when closed in by the sword.

So though at times I wish him gone, I cannot curse his name…
For through his eyes I’ve seen the Lord who purposes the pain.

He moves through every corridor and leaves it dim and bare,
But in the silence of his wake I find my Savior there.

So let him idle if he must—this guest who may not leave,
For even he is sanctified since Christ resides in me.

This poem personifies grief as a guest who comes to stay, following a harrowing event.