Ribs to Ruby
a poem
The devil loves to play the violin, And my ribs were his instrument. Melted onto tear stained sheets. My ego and intellect were a deceit. These tears were not sent up to the Almighty, But Christ came to my cries. With His hands, He still chose to heal me. My peril was a jewel to the devil's night, But God knew I was His daughter to be, A ruby to His heavenly eye.
I was stuck in the last stage of grief and was never able to accept having a chronic illness until I accepted Christ in my life. I did not have a relationship with Jesus the years I was sick, but He never gave up on me.
Depression due to suffering from a chronic illness is just as crippling as the disease itself. I was emaciated from not being able to eat anything since anything and everything I ate caused me great pain. Even water. That is why I say the devil plays my ribs like an instrument. I was nothing but bone which leads to another poem of mine:
God ripped away my flesh, Revealing nothing but bone For I now see death. The spirit is my only home.
If only I had relationship with Jesus then. Maybe it would have been easier. Maybe emotionally, I would have bounced back quicker. That does not matter now. What matters now is that currently I am building a relationship with Him, and my life has been improving since.
Thank you for reading. God bless.
Nicole…this is such stark, honest writing.
That opening image—“the devil loves to play the violin, and my ribs were his instrument”—doesn’t feel like a metaphor you invented as much as a truth you survived. You put language to the way chronic illness can turn the body into a battlefield…and to the quiet cruelty of depression that sits on top of the suffering and says, “This is all you are now.”
What I feel most in your piece, though, isn’t the darkness…it’s the tenderness that interrupts it: “But Christ came to my cries.” Not as a distant concept, not as a reward for having the “right” faith at the “right” time…but as Presence. Hands. Healing. A choosing.
And I really appreciate your honesty about the “maybe” thoughts—maybe it would have been easier…maybe I would have bounced back quicker—and then how you refuse to live there. There’s a maturity in that. You’re not denying the grief…and you’re also not letting grief become the final authority over your story.
“God knew I was His daughter to be…a ruby to His heavenly eye.” That line reads like someone being reclaimed—named again—after being reduced to pain and bone.
Thank you for letting us see you, not the polished version…you. Praying that this growing relationship keeps making room for breath, strength, and the kind of healing that reaches deeper than symptoms. God bless you too.