This Was the Fall. Now We Rise.

A Lenten Poem for Matthew 4:1–11

This Was the Fall. Now We Rise.

(for Matthew 4:1–11, by Sarah Skinner, 2026)

It was during Covid,
or maybe when the food stamp fund was suspended,
or maybe when the hurricane came and the water rose—
and you found yourself in a wilderness
where even your breath felt loud.

The wilderness whispered with the wind:
“You are alone.”
And still,
you laughed—
a stubborn spark,
a match insisting on burning
in a wind that wanted it gone.

One night, in the dark,
you made a small fire to keep warm.
The voice of fear hissed across sand and storm:
“Prove yourself.”
And you answered, even cold and shivering,
“I am already enough.”

Cast by the flame you tended with your own hands,
shadows lengthened like promises
that never intended to keep themselves.
They whispered:
“Bow to me,
and I will give you the world.”

But you remembered —
joy is already a kingdom,
and it does not require permission.

The wilderness thought it had taken everything.
And in the desert, in winter,
it was easy to believe this was true.

The wilderness took your voice,
but when it tried to take your tears?
Oh—every one became a seed,
and grief grew gardens,
a riot of joy-flowers breaking open the earth.

In your weeping, you cried out
and heard the echo
of your own mighty voice.

This was the fall.
Now — we rise.

So you walked out,
out of the desert,
unafraid,
unhidden,
your heart lit like a lantern
no wilderness could swallow —
carrying the kind of healing
that only comes
when shame fails
to keep you small.