I finally get it.
Holes are meant to be filled.
I've had too numerous of these to mention.
Doctors tag it with fancy: depression.
Friends whisper about our deep issues.
When it hits, we lose our name.
I was hit by its fury two years ago.
When this catastrophic squall breathes you down, the only escape seems to be death.
Thus, I have joined the league of those who have imagined such terminal release.
I feel the cry of the apostle who despaired even of life while being rocked to its dregs.
The hellish hole is too strong. Its fury is unrelenting.
When a man gets smitten by this deep dark night, one merely hopes for an angel.
My daughter saw through my veneer:
Nika: Dad, you have to get out of that hole.
Me: (slumbered in bed, pretending to be merely tired) What hole?
Nika: I know this Dad, trust me. I was in a hole myself. Do I need to remind you who pulled me out?
Me: (in silence, my thoughts race back to the empty tomb of Easter.)
Today is Christ's Resurrection.
It is the day when holes were granted the option of holy.
God's hole flung open and out came the Risen Messiah.
I was resected.
My clock reads the time as Redemption.
It was all because of that Sunday when death was fully filled by Eternal Life.