An Indomitable Grace

I’ll tell you a story from start to middle,
but you can’t skip ahead,
an extraordinary story which
you have only seen the shadows of,
not knowing that they—
through the  fire, those dancing
images on the wall—
were yours as well as mine,
with all the pieces that make
a story that steals your heart
and too much of your time,
no serenades or two-dollar bills,
but grappling and failures,
A story beginning in false hope
(this part you know well enough)
and leading to despair
at the awareness of deception,
But none so wounding as
the treason we sell ourselves.
Then in the midst of all
irrevocable hope lost or cold falseness,
some kind of glimmer,
A strange kind of courage
from the outside and in,
but could never be only mine,
Or some unexpected hope
for what had always been
so distant and impossible a thing.
But only to the midst
can my storytelling go.
For, it is not done yet,
and it is Your move to write
what I can only perform,
But tell it, will I do
so might you see or understand
that however this epic weaves its ending,
final threads, there is hope and joy and
love in its fullness, beating
and learning to unfold.
It will forever outlive,
even if in sorrow or gladness,
any answer you could give.