Lately it’s the little things. Like the way the moon smiled down on us last night as we stood in the parking lot to say goodbye. And the way the Maple tree is beginning to bud, red leaflets unfurling; it’s the way my hand fits in his—how that can feel new after all these years.
It’s sweet-smelling nightskin and the way an earlobe curves just so; the way the perfect word drips off the tongue like rain—this, my seduction.
The earth rarely moves but there is something stirring inside of me—something groaning awake. Is it spring? Resurrection? We have had some dark months and last night as we walked under the stars I told Jeffrey that it is what we let these difficult times make of us that matters. He didn’t like that but he walked a little taller after the saying of it.
And later, after we stay up until midnight pouring our hearts into the open hands of the other—it all seems like empty words; dead things, long-expired. I tell him it feels like I’m standing alone in this hope and he won’t look me in the face.
And so I read about Jesus saying that it makes no sense to fast when the bridegroom is among the children of the bedchamber. Barclay says that, “Those who walks with Christ walk in radiance and joy.”
Then why am I starving to death?
So I do my best to align my heart, align my steps, walk in time. Joy has made herself scarce these days. And I wonder if walking with Christ could be as simple as walking with my son under the night sky—could I … just? I let all that trying go, let loose of all that I know.
And I part the curtains just in time to see. A single light, shooting across the sky.