lamentation from the grove
[January 17, 2026]. The curse of Gethsemane is upon me as this life of faith births incessant sorrow. I’m down on my knees in the garden, sweating from every pore, choking on my despair, begging God to take this cup from me. I lament and lament as the miracles he has given me pale in the shadow of death that I often hope for. In expectation of mercy, my lungs fill with heavy tar and I can feel his hand tearing through the flesh of my chest, prying my ribs apart, squeezing his fingers around my heart to keep it from beating. I drown in burning tears and my soul quivers under the weight of knowing Christ, of knowing this kind of suffering.
I labor and am heavy laden, so I come to him but get no rest. I feel his yoke. It is neither easy nor light. Am I but another lamb for slaughter? How many times must I turn my cheek? He sees me under the tree, but I’m getting weaker as I follow the drag path of the cross. Though I keep going, sometimes the only incentive is that the most tempting sin is the only one in which there is no repentance…
When will I be free from this shame and inadequacy? I weep and mourn alongside him, and though he is here, the pain doesn’t amount to its worth. It is selfish to ask why I must feel so deeply if he’s already done it for me, but I demand an answer. Why is it I stand over freshly dug graves in envy? Why does he let me ache with so much ferocity? When will he give me a break from the ever returning riptide of anguish? I die to myself but become what resembles a sorry carcass, waiting to decompose and become soil for new life. But my patience weans and all I can feel are the feet of the devil walking over my remains, dancing, stomping, while he laughs at my hopelessness. I’ve admitted my life in humility and sorrow and this is what I get in return?
I await the reckoning like a helpless doe. He asked Faustina, “How long shall I put up with you and how long will you keep putting me off?” I now ask the same of him. How long will he keep me waiting? Oh, to smell Therese’s roses and sing Jose’s chant. Oh, to feel the joy sung of in the psalms for just one second without the impending clouds that loom all around this valley. When man dies, he is to live again. This is the life I am waiting for. When will I return home?
The seas crash upon my face
White with fury
They foam at my mouth
And hinder my breath
But the Lord of peace can calm the waters
And bring the motion to stillness
He can turn the darkness into clarity
My God’s hand grips the tempest
And reigns it into his own control
In the midst of violent unrest
My safety comes from the Lord
[January 21, 1938]. Jesus, how truly dreadful it would be to suffer if it were not for You. But it is You, Jesus, stretched out on the cross, who give me strength and are always close to the suffering soul. Creatures will abandon a person in his suffering, but You, O Lord, are faithful... They still take interest in our suffering and all that, but if God sends a longer illness, even those faithful friends slowly begin to desert us. They visit us less frequently, and often their visits cause suffering. Instead of comforting us, they reproach us about certain things, which is an occasion of a good deal of suffering. And so the soul, like Job, is alone…
