I dug a hole
A poem . . .
Debride nails, soiled knuckles, shadowed fingerprints
I dug a hole, not a grave
Climbed in and curled up
Mingled within twisted sheets of shame
Overlaid with blankets of sorrow
Widespread bedspread of both outer and inner critic
It’s a diverse kind of lonesome
An abstract kind of pain
Or is it
Although the Breath is in me
He breathes on me
Eyes open
It takes time to unwring
He catches the undercurrent
It takes time to uncover
He wraps with heart of discernment
It takes time to unfold
He speaks and feeds the fruit
I come up from the hole, not the grave
I look for those of debride nails, soiled knuckles, and shadowed fingerprints
Scripture Inspiration: Ezekiel 37:1-14, Galatians 5:22-23, and 2 Corinthians 1:4 The Picture . . .
The other night Jon (hubby) took that picture of me, I did not know it. I was hesitant on posting it. I was truly caving. The deep crevices on my face are hard for me to look at, but this is reality. I felt the Lord told me many years ago, “be vulnerable with them.” So here I am.
Thoughts?
I would love to know how this poem spoke to you. Feel free to comment. A couple more weeks of silence on mainstream Substack, but excited to connect with you all soon. Will respond to long form posts. Blessings beautiful ones 🖤
Thank you for sharing this…here is what I see.
I sense hiding from something very painful…not hiding as weakness, but hiding as survival. The “hole, not a grave” feels so important. It reads like a retreat for safety, not surrender.
And the bedding imagery really struck me. The “twisted sheets,” “blankets,” and “bedspread” of shame, sorrow, and both outer and inner critic almost feels like returning to the womb…curled up, warm, protected…wanting to be taken care of when the world and the soul feel too sharp to bear.
Then the shift… “Although the Breath is in me / He breathes on me / Eyes open.” That feels like Presence. Not a quick fix. Not a command to perform strength. Just God meeting you in the hole and breathing life where you are.
The repetition of “It takes time…” feels like permission…to unwring, uncover, and unfold slowly, without forcing healing to be instant.
And that ending is powerful…coming up from the hole and looking for the ones with “debride nails, soiled knuckles, and shadowed fingerprints.” Not the polished people. The ones who have been in it…who have touched wounds, carried weight, and stayed human.
This is vulnerability with substance. Thank you for offering it.
Ashley,
This is a brave and holy piece: tender without being sentimental, honest without being self-erasing.
What moved me most is the insistence you make, again and again, on time. “It takes time to unwring… to uncover… to unfold.” That rhythm feels deeply faithful. Resurrection in Ezekiel 37 is not rushed; breath comes bone by bone, sinew by sinew. What you describe is not a dramatic escape from pain, but companionship within it. Not a hole as a place of death, but a place where God meets you and refuses to let it become a grave.
The imagery of 'debride nails, soiled knuckles, shadowed fingerprints' is especially powerful. It names a God who is not afraid of mess, who works close enough to leave marks. And the critics, outer and inner; are not denied, but overlaid, named, and ultimately answered not by argument, but by Presence.
The photograph matters here. The vulnerability you speak of is not performative; it’s incarnational. The lines on your face are not failure; they are witness. They tell the truth of survival, of breath still moving, of fruit still being fed even in the dark.
How did it speak to me? It gave language to the slow mercy of God; the kind that does not pull us out prematurely, but stays until we can rise with Him. Thank you for trusting us with this. It feels like a gift offered with open hands.
Blessings,
Ze Selassie