The light at the end of the tunnel was blinding.
After years of walking forward in faith,
my steps felt aimless.
I carried deep isolation in my chest,
while holding the hands of my children,
even as I prayed,
“God, be a lamp unto my feet.”

As I reached the end,
the sun met my face with a kiss.
But I nearly turned away from the very light I had begged for.
Hands instinctively rose to cover my eyes,
a reflex learned in survival.
Protect. 
Retreat. 
Hide.

Why was the tunnel so long?
What lesson required that kind of pain?
Did my character really need that much development?
Was my spirit needing that much refinement?

What didn’t kill me made me stronger,
but it also chipped away at my softness.
It made me break in places no one could see.
It made me question everything I believed.

So now, I pray
That this season of light
will not just shine on me,
but soften me.
That it will seep into the hardened places,
meet the cracks,
and begin to heal what was shattered.

There is light at the end of the tunnel,
but grief waited for me there, too.