I've spent the past 11 months working the fields. I've been hacking my way through the weeds, slowly making my way through the high brush. 11 months of long, hard labor. Tough work, hard work, it is more than exhausting. The thing about working the fields is the work is never done. Seasons change, but the fields must be maintained, cleaned, cultivated, harvested. My grief is the same way. Some days it needs more tender care than others. Other days the field is green and growing and others the weeds have taken over and must be worked trough. It takes time and is a never ending process. There is no end, it will always be a part of my life. And while its hard work, it's a labor of love.
It's exhausting. I'm tired. I'm tattered. My hands are blistered. I long for rest. Yet each day, I put on my work clothes and tackle the work. I do it out of love and that keeps me going.