Currently Reading On the Apostolic Preaching By Saint, Bishop of Lyon Irenaeus see related

You come through the doorway, hardened with pain. And I plead and cry and beg, and you push, and you ignore, and you try your darnest to get rid of me, flesh against stone, until tears soak into my words and I am choked, and my voice is a hoarse whisper. And you break, and we cry, and we hold. And words pile upon words as I lie close to you till it seems that for a few glistening moments we are one again, until the poison within us turns them into stale air hanging in the cool autumn evening; till you wrap your heart against your chest and shut yourself out as I tell you that I am sorry I couldn’t do better.

And the sorrow within wells up and runs everywhere across my face, warm rivulets of rejection and pain, till I am left with no more tears left to cry and nothing more to say. I am empty yet strangely full. The warm tears have run cold, and yet my head is clear. I hear You say, “Blessed are the peacemakers, for their’s is the kingdom of heaven.” But what is the use of being a peacemaker if I could make no peace? I have peace it is true, an ephemeral sense of wholeness, perhaps nothing more than the fragile bliss that catharsis allows us. Yet it is precious and holy, and I cling to it as I fall asleep in our bed, alone tonight.