Slowly, Surely
Like some sort of fever dream, I can make little sense of true north, failing to understand exactly when I’m failing, when I’m flourishing; when I’m moving earth, and when I’m being buried alive. Moments of peace and grace punctuate the day, but every time I reach upwards, my knuckles graze against the ground. I push against it to find it draw close and heavy against me. I pivot, and the world stops turning to meet me halfway and remind me just how far I have to go.
On my hands and knees, slowly, surely, as any journey to Calvary must be.