Like many a novel, series, or film,
it has ended all too soon.
Becoming too connected to the characters,
remembering each and every scene,
finding it hard to stop thinking, what might have been.
Yet she gave her heart to the One who writes sonnets in a breath,
designed each and every sunrise, and loved her into existence.
Logic reminds her that every story has an end,
time never ceases, and life goes on.
Reality reminds her that pain is unavoidable
and that this hurts much more deeply than many could fathom.
By a quick glance to the cross she finds the only solution:
acceptance, surrender, and blind trust.
Gazing intently she sees that the wood is not sanded smooth,
but is covered in imperfections and splinters.
The Man laying across it is not modelesque,
but is laden with gashes and sores.
So why must she expect anything less,
when she herself is trivial in comparison to the Man hanging from her neck.
Her wounds, however, will not be born on the flesh,
but will take its form in the shape of Mary’s:
internal, hidden, and given to One who may turn this ending into a glorious new beginning.
So she gives this modest prayer as her best offering in the moment,
and sends praise for the taste of heaven she was given on earth.