Rocky Ridge

Sitting in church on the Sunday following the 24th of July, and wrote this.

I paused to take a breath
As I pulled our humble cart.
I felt my legs both trembling,
Quite different than at the start.
The hill seemed never ending
That we had to surmount,
And the snow came down in layers
In inches too many to count.

My father lay in fever
Atop our worldly goods,
While my mother and my sister
Trudged alongside through the woods.
The last meal we had eaten
Was cold gruel and moldy bread,
But so far we had avoided
Being counted among the dead.

I once more started pulling
Stepping slowly to reach the top.
I felt that I could make five more
Before I had to stop.
But then, five had passed,
And five more beyond those,
I felt my burden lightened,
Though I could hardly feel my toes.

Each time that I looked forward
I'd think to myself in my mind,
"I can go only so much farther",
And then when I'd get there I'd find
That my feet seemed to carry me upward
In spite of my weakness and pain.
I felt my cart push ME onward
Maintaining our place in the train.

Then at last the peak was surmounted.
The ridge lay behind us to stay.
I fell to my knees in exhaustion,
And while there, I started to pray.
I thanked my Father in Heaven
For the succor that we did receive,
And asked him to bless all the others
Who had reason to grieve.

We felt that God must have sent angels
To help us to get to the top,
For without help from our Father,
I'm sure that I would have said stop.
But, we made it on into the haven
Where the rescuers awaited us all,
And in spite of all of our trials,
We're glad that we heeded the call.