Psalm 13 is for the ones still waiting. Still aching. Still whispering prayers into silence. This is not a psalm of triumph, but of trust rising through tears. Virgin Monk Boy retransmits the ancient cry with no filter and no flattery—just the holy honesty of being human too long without relief.
🕉️To the family of Brother A/Sister R, otherwise known as “Virgin Monk Boy,” who may or may not also be collaborating on the writing, Mary Magdalene knows that Psalm 13 is very sad, but trusts that “the gospel practically writes itself” — she sends her blessings for much happiness.🕊️
Thank you so much. Your message, “the gospel practically writes itself”, resonated deeply and brought a quiet smile. Romans wouldn’t mind if I said your words are a balm to the spirit.
It’s raw, and yes, Psalm 13 is heavy, but your blessing, and the way Mary Magdalene leans into compassion, gives such light to the ache in those lines. That phrase, “trusts that ‘the gospel practically writes itself’”… love it, a reminder that even in the slow, unraveling moments, hope shows up, writes itself, often in the tender silence.
I was drinking coffee & eating a larabar for breakfast when Psalm 13 appears. One of my favorite numbers. The picture broke my heart - warning flag - but i kept going, started reading. Immediately i know these words, have asked these questions. And didn’t get far, when i read “grief holds a residency in my chest”. i started crying & i stopped & went to take a shower. Came back & tried again & the same thing happened so i stopped & went to get dressed for a doctor’s appt & third times a charm - those words just opened the door for the grief to let go & let me sob wondering WHY am i crying over this one phrase? Is it that simple, grief is holding residency there in my chest & I’m just ignoring it? I left for the doctors & on the way the lighting bulb went off. The appt was for a device check of the pacemaker i just got 5 weeks ago. In my chest. So many tears - pain - struggles attached to that.
I read the rest of the psalm in the corner of the waiting room, didn’t get to finish it but i will later tonite. I indulged in my bad habit of peeking at the end & i can say I wouldn’t know a tidy ending if i ran over one & seeing survival as a hymn is so holy.
This is such a brutal blessing of truth 🙏❤️🩹 TY
And i honestly don’t know if I’ve ever been raveled. 😶🌫️
Beth Ann, the heart doesn’t need tidy endings. It needs space to leak.
“Grief holds a residency in my chest” wasn’t meant to break you. It was meant to name what was already breaking. The fact that it lined up with your pacemaker check is the kind of cosmic joke only Presence can write.
You’ve been unraveled and rewoven more times than you know. Being “raveled” isn’t the point. Survival singing itself into hymn is.
Blessed be the sob that won’t ask permission. It’s the holiest kind of prayer.
For years i would stifle my crying - even after i got sober - & finally realized it was due to fear. The fear that once i started crying, I wouldn’t stop. 3 years ago, when 3 of my close friends died within 8 months of each other, I literally had no energy to stop it - whispered a prayer for help & that fear finally disappeared.
🕉️To the family of Brother A/Sister R, otherwise known as “Virgin Monk Boy,” who may or may not also be collaborating on the writing, Mary Magdalene knows that Psalm 13 is very sad, but trusts that “the gospel practically writes itself” — she sends her blessings for much happiness.🕊️
Thank you so much. Your message, “the gospel practically writes itself”, resonated deeply and brought a quiet smile. Romans wouldn’t mind if I said your words are a balm to the spirit.
It’s raw, and yes, Psalm 13 is heavy, but your blessing, and the way Mary Magdalene leans into compassion, gives such light to the ache in those lines. That phrase, “trusts that ‘the gospel practically writes itself’”… love it, a reminder that even in the slow, unraveling moments, hope shows up, writes itself, often in the tender silence.
I was drinking coffee & eating a larabar for breakfast when Psalm 13 appears. One of my favorite numbers. The picture broke my heart - warning flag - but i kept going, started reading. Immediately i know these words, have asked these questions. And didn’t get far, when i read “grief holds a residency in my chest”. i started crying & i stopped & went to take a shower. Came back & tried again & the same thing happened so i stopped & went to get dressed for a doctor’s appt & third times a charm - those words just opened the door for the grief to let go & let me sob wondering WHY am i crying over this one phrase? Is it that simple, grief is holding residency there in my chest & I’m just ignoring it? I left for the doctors & on the way the lighting bulb went off. The appt was for a device check of the pacemaker i just got 5 weeks ago. In my chest. So many tears - pain - struggles attached to that.
I read the rest of the psalm in the corner of the waiting room, didn’t get to finish it but i will later tonite. I indulged in my bad habit of peeking at the end & i can say I wouldn’t know a tidy ending if i ran over one & seeing survival as a hymn is so holy.
This is such a brutal blessing of truth 🙏❤️🩹 TY
And i honestly don’t know if I’ve ever been raveled. 😶🌫️
Beth Ann, the heart doesn’t need tidy endings. It needs space to leak.
“Grief holds a residency in my chest” wasn’t meant to break you. It was meant to name what was already breaking. The fact that it lined up with your pacemaker check is the kind of cosmic joke only Presence can write.
You’ve been unraveled and rewoven more times than you know. Being “raveled” isn’t the point. Survival singing itself into hymn is.
Blessed be the sob that won’t ask permission. It’s the holiest kind of prayer.
For years i would stifle my crying - even after i got sober - & finally realized it was due to fear. The fear that once i started crying, I wouldn’t stop. 3 years ago, when 3 of my close friends died within 8 months of each other, I literally had no energy to stop it - whispered a prayer for help & that fear finally disappeared.
Sending comfort and Light to you, Beth Ann