It’s been a week. A week since sorrow found its way into Appalachia, settled in beside us, and made itself at home. A week since everything we knew was shattered.
There’s a part of me that lived before Helene, and another that’s left behind in her wake. I feel the weight of it all, pressing down, sinking in deep. Maybe it’s this heavy because we’ve forgotten what it means to truly carry each other’s pain. Maybe it’s so heavy because we’ve lost the urgency of standing in the gap for one another, lost the tenderness of weeping with those who weep.
It’s heavy.
But this weight is sacred.
I wasn’t ready for the burden, but I’ll carry it for you, with you. I may not know how to wear this cloak of grief, but I’ll drape it over my shoulders if it means you don’t have to wear it alone. I’ll weep when you can’t hold back the tears. I’ll fight when you have no strength left to stand. These are my mountains, you are my people, this is my home.
Isaiah 61:3 whispers a promise:
“To appoint unto them that mourn in Zion, to give unto them beauty for ashes, the oil of joy for mourning, the garment of praise for the spirit of heaviness…”
I’ll stay right here, in the ashes with you, until the beauty comes. And it *will* come. It’s been promised. Until then, I’ll bear this heaviness by your side.
We’ll weep together, we’ll wait together. And when the dawn finally breaks, we’ll rise together.
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