Poetry by Kristine Amundrud
WHERE WINGS ARE FASHIONED
I have seen your steadfast giftings–
hidden away, silently decreasing
in a battered coffer.
The enemy’s waxen seal disheartened you
but it ought not dismantle
all forthcoming dreams and desires.
You’ve waited with endurance,
feeling the erosion of unutterable loss,
and bearing all that you felt
powerless to change.
It is time. Invite him into your story.
Our Rescuer does not sit passively
but enters in with a bold brightness,
tending over you with soothing spoken balm.
Tell me that you’ll pursue him,
the very way he passionately persists after you.
Rote words spoken are inadequate
at encapsulating all we truly desire to say.
But my heart brims over with prophesies,
and verities you must retain.
I see your vision for what lies ahead–
you will fly swiftly out of the war chest!
May you become more of who you are meant to be
in this place of now and not yet!
I wonder how your heart is doing.
Let us create a quiet cocoon to find repose in–
where wings are fashioned out of darkness and pain,
where hope holds hurt, and faith foils fear.
Gratitude crushes grief when our Savior draws near!
Healing transforms in the most breathtaking ways.
Who can scarce recognize you once your life becomes
technicolor?
You are the newest creation!
I implore you–take wing!
You thought grief would drown you,
that the enemy had triumphed.
But no–brave one, you are living out the truth
of who you were foreordained to be.
Midlife metamorphosis is piloting you
to vibrant avant-gardes places.
Dry your gossamer wings.
Delicate–endlessly strong.
Take to the air
and live!
Here In the Undergrowth
Grief was the onion–
carelessly forgotten and kicked around
in autumn’s root cellar,
left to rot in darkest dark.
“No time for peeling back the layers,” I said.
Rarely possessing the emotional margin
for carefully examining patterns,
or to eke out possible signs of life.
I couldn’t fathom cutting into the acidic
flesh of pain.
There was no longing for microscopic enzymes–
the genesis of alleviative downpours,
from a dam bursting with heartache.
Grief was the mausoleum
in my ever so weary heart.
There was nothing royal nor stately.
Dreams for what could or should have been
left entombed here–
silently at war with revelations and
shafts of light.
Grief is the forest I witnessed
going up in fervid flames–
a spark of unjustness,
one second of negligence,
a pining for repose where there is none.
Look for me in the undergrowth,
patiently holding only what’s mine.
This nutrient pulse–
a slow leak of reparative reserves,
a gift from the Father.
As the ash transfigures the soil,
bitterness is reconstituted into beauty.
Grief is the gift I have yet to fully unwrap.
The planting surprised me with its rough terrain,
the back-breaking task of
repetitively bending low.
It’s in the valley when we most clearly
meet with Jesus.
This is where the planting begins.
This is how we heal–bent low where he is still good.
Kristine Amundrud is a wife and homeschool mom to three kids, living in Central Alberta, Canada. In the busy day-to-day, she’s pursuing healing through story work and writing. Kristine hopes you will find traces of God’s immeasurable goodness in the words she shares. She finds joy creating in the kitchen, walking alongside her husband, adventuring in the Canadian Rockies, and cuddling up with her children and a good storybook. She loves friendships that go beneath the surface. Connect with her on Instagram @kamundrud
