This isn’t a confession. It’s scripture for the sinners who kept showing up with bandaged hearts and called it love anyway.
Joe, what you wrote isn’t failure—it’s testimony. Not the shiny kind with tambourines and baptisms, but the kind carved into barroom walls and bruised ribcages. “I didn’t love them well” is the most honest beatitude I’ve read this year.
This is what church should have taught us: that love from the broken isn’t less holy. It just limps. And sometimes, trying is the miracle.
You loved them like a match loves kindling. No one doubted the flame.
This is a truly remarkable piece of writing, Joe. It's raw and real and full of authentic hard-earned wisdom.
We all wish we were perfect and could do things perfectly in this life - especially for those we love. But human beings are rarely, if ever, perfect, and this testimony candidly acknowledges our failings, while loving truly and fiercely, nevertheless. I particularly like the closing sections:
"I loved them with every jagged edge I had left. With a heart that limped instead of beat. With a soul that couldn’t stop bleeding, so it just started painting the walls instead.
I loved them with my whole broken self. With a tenderness I didn’t always know how to show, but carried like a secret under every hard word. And if there is a reckoning, if there is a table where the good ones sit, I hope they save me a chair, not because I was kind, but because I never pretended to be.
Can I just sit beside these words and feel this.... Alongside a river of feelings, ache, grief and pain... Underneath a tree made out of love, resilience and tears...
I bow my head as I sit down... Drowning in these words... 🖤
Raw and heartbreaking, respect for regrets and grief as my mum just passed away, and I’ve always loved and respected grief and mourning as I worked in a public hospital for 15 years or so, and a gallows humour was vital to overcome the sadness.
Respect for your testament to rough times and rough love.
What can I say Joe. You hit it and you hit me hard! The truth that is raw yet real and beautiful too. Thank you. You are one poet here in Substack that I never let slip by. I read every line. Is there a word more expressive than resonate? I would definitely put your book of poetry on my shelf for others to read.
“I said ‘stay’ like it was a dare. I said ‘I love you’ like it was a confession, not a promise.” Having stayed through “every jagged syllable” and “every torn-lace morning after,” hopeful and adoring but not having saved the house from burning, I find I am grateful for this painfully beautiful piece despite it wrenching my guts at first read. I, too, stayed longer than I should have, although I know I’d still be there had he not chosen to walk away. How odd to me that these words are like a balm…you know, the kind that you wince as applying to an open wound, taking care to let the tear slide gently so as not to further disturb the wound with the movement of a wracking sob.
Thanks for this piece, Joe. It covers so much more than what it brought out in me today, but I’ll have to read it again for more of that later. I have enough to process for the moment. That’s a hallmark of a good piece, I should think.
Thank you Jessica, I adore your comments and I truly appreciate your insight and opinions. I am so very glad you found this one special. It was for me as well.
This isn’t a confession. It’s scripture for the sinners who kept showing up with bandaged hearts and called it love anyway.
Joe, what you wrote isn’t failure—it’s testimony. Not the shiny kind with tambourines and baptisms, but the kind carved into barroom walls and bruised ribcages. “I didn’t love them well” is the most honest beatitude I’ve read this year.
This is what church should have taught us: that love from the broken isn’t less holy. It just limps. And sometimes, trying is the miracle.
You loved them like a match loves kindling. No one doubted the flame.
This is a truly remarkable piece of writing, Joe. It's raw and real and full of authentic hard-earned wisdom.
We all wish we were perfect and could do things perfectly in this life - especially for those we love. But human beings are rarely, if ever, perfect, and this testimony candidly acknowledges our failings, while loving truly and fiercely, nevertheless. I particularly like the closing sections:
"I loved them with every jagged edge I had left. With a heart that limped instead of beat. With a soul that couldn’t stop bleeding, so it just started painting the walls instead.
I loved them with my whole broken self. With a tenderness I didn’t always know how to show, but carried like a secret under every hard word. And if there is a reckoning, if there is a table where the good ones sit, I hope they save me a chair, not because I was kind, but because I never pretended to be.
Because I showed up.
Because I tried.
Because sometimes, trying is its own gospel."
Thank you sir, I truly appreciate your words. More than you know.
Can I just sit beside these words and feel this.... Alongside a river of feelings, ache, grief and pain... Underneath a tree made out of love, resilience and tears...
I bow my head as I sit down... Drowning in these words... 🖤
Thank you Simona. Very much.
Stunning. Thank you for allowing us to witness. Sanctus. 🙏🏻
Thank you so much.
Raw and heartbreaking, respect for regrets and grief as my mum just passed away, and I’ve always loved and respected grief and mourning as I worked in a public hospital for 15 years or so, and a gallows humour was vital to overcome the sadness.
Respect for your testament to rough times and rough love.
Kindest regards
Thank you so much Carol.
My love may have been imperfect for them, but my true "sin" was not loving myself. May that be my Holy Work for the rest of my days.
Thanks, Joe, as always, for seeing into the heart of our lives. nora ann.
The power of love!
Floods through in infinite forms🩵🩵🩵
Have you read Robert Hayden's "Those Winter Sundays"?
No, I have not, I’ll have to look it up
Uncovering that heart. Breaking the cycle.
💞
I couldn't say it any better than Martin and Alek.
Thank you Debra.
What can I say Joe. You hit it and you hit me hard! The truth that is raw yet real and beautiful too. Thank you. You are one poet here in Substack that I never let slip by. I read every line. Is there a word more expressive than resonate? I would definitely put your book of poetry on my shelf for others to read.
What a wonderful comment! Thank you so very much.
“I said ‘stay’ like it was a dare. I said ‘I love you’ like it was a confession, not a promise.” Having stayed through “every jagged syllable” and “every torn-lace morning after,” hopeful and adoring but not having saved the house from burning, I find I am grateful for this painfully beautiful piece despite it wrenching my guts at first read. I, too, stayed longer than I should have, although I know I’d still be there had he not chosen to walk away. How odd to me that these words are like a balm…you know, the kind that you wince as applying to an open wound, taking care to let the tear slide gently so as not to further disturb the wound with the movement of a wracking sob.
Thanks for this piece, Joe. It covers so much more than what it brought out in me today, but I’ll have to read it again for more of that later. I have enough to process for the moment. That’s a hallmark of a good piece, I should think.
Thank you Jessica, I adore your comments and I truly appreciate your insight and opinions. I am so very glad you found this one special. It was for me as well.
We are shovels ready Joe. Anytime you need us.
"The one who didn’t say much, but always showed up with a shovel when I was buried in my own mistakes."
Thank you sir.