By Frederick Blanchard
In subtle ways they are,
D elivering a front that seems perfectly normal.
E xpressions become a facade of reality.
P resumptions from distorted information.
R esults are the withdrawing into ones own secure realm.
Feeling safer there,
E xperiencing feelings without a name.
S tranded on an island that’s no more than a void.
So they begin,
S earching in a steady and circular motion.
I nside there is silent turmoil twisting and fraying of emotions.
O n the outside appears a shadow of sadness only to the observer.
Who sees them,
N earing to the cliffs edge of all encompassing fear.
Who can begin to visualize or imagine,
What is reflected in their mirror,
Of the appearance, of ones self image,
Or of their feelings of being distant or nearer?
As their world of color turns gray,
Mountains of adversaries grow to great heights,
Rivers of plenty turn into dry creek beds,
Short days blend slowly into long nights.
Hymns of their childhood begin to drift in,
In a quiet answer to a hurting soul’s prayer.
Then the personal right hand of God reaches down,
Pulling them up out of the mire of dispair.
It is only by the saving grace of Jesus Christ,
Who sits at the right hand of the Father,
That will deliver us from all kinds of evil,
Replacing total sadness with joyous laughter.