Disappointment One More Time

We ask for the breeze to blow. Or the sun to shine. We ask for the flowers to bloom. Or the news to be good just one time.

We carry much—expectations and hopes, dreams and desires. Or we don't, because disappointment, time and again, has taught us to not count on good things anymore. Not for us, anyway.

Fear can make any dream feel impossible to achieve. So taking one small step toward the dream feels useless, a waste of time. We are scared of the blow to our hearts if we fail one more time.

Believing in other people's goodness is no easy task either. Not when they hurt us. Or we hurt them. And we struggle to pick ourselves up again. Try again. One more time.

But here is where we turn: if there is an ache in your heart, let yourself feel it. Articulate it. Let it tell you a story. Let it grab hold of your hand and point you the way toward understanding the deeper places that hurt.

What has disappointed you this week? What did you run towards with your hurt?

Will you write about that now? Find a few sentences that uncover the deeper truth within you you would otherwise never know?

And then, don't stop there. After you have written down the disappointment—you've claimed it and tried to understand it—take one more step now. Offer these words of disappointment to God. What does He have to say about them? What is He speaking back to you?

Consider sharing your poem below. Or share it on social media using the hashtag #looppoetryproject.

Let your heart rise now. We are leaning in close. Longing to hear from you.

love,

Jennifer

The Reconsidering

for J.O.

Describe it, the sound of a voice

cracking, a soul trembling

over the phone when it is just us two,

your voice and mine connecting

and we rely upon words to

heal, bring solace, offer a story to

make sense of what?

the reason why we choose

to protect ourselves from each other

at all cost and then feel the tearing open—

our tearing open,

self-preservation a thing of the past because

we don’t know how to do it now,

preserve what once was,

for there is sometimes (never)

a going back to what once was

only letting shame kill

its children and regret

bury its dead

and letting pain billow

in undulations

(keep feeling don’t stop feeling)

until it strengthens us

and we are not what we once were,

look, look, at the fire burning now.