Waiting with Joy

I wrote this poem two months ago, but it’s how I’ve been feeling this past week.

Waiting
by Tacy Gibbons

Another bomb hits,
another boulder in my pack.
Sometimes I just want to give up.

I lift myself out of the hole,
sift through the rubble,
know I have to carry on—
and carry those around me.

I want to get up,
want to keep going.
I know I will.
But sometimes the weight is too heavy,
and I’m tired of always having to be the strong one.

Sometimes the darkness is too thick,
and I can’t stand the bumps and bruises
of stumbling around so blindly.

I get up.

I stumble on.

I wait for the next bomb to drop.

Honestly, most of the last several weeks I’ve felt so much peace and joy. It’s not because things are getting easier. They aren’t. This one in particular struggle, difficulty, trial (whatever you want to call it) is still going on (has been for six months now), and there’s no end in sight. It doesn’t get easier. It gets harder. And there have been more hard things that keep piling on. I’ve never been through such fire and flame in my life. Yet, I’ve felt more joy than I ever have before. And I’m still struggling. I still get overwhelmed. I still cry. I still need help. And just the past week, the stress and weight seems to have caught up, and I’m feeling off. I’m feeling this poem I wrote two months ago. Just waiting for the next bomb to go off, the next boulder to drop—and also trying my best to keep doing the things that have brought me joy in the midst of the hardest trial I’ve ever been through.