Voice of My People

 

There is a cadence, and a sound,

the shaping and movement of her lips

that evokes the memory of pecans

on long stretches, a grove, 

and the scent of manure, and dirt,

the shuffling of dominoes 

and laughter. 

In Ada, they say, 

all the secrets whispered on the wind

are exculpatory and brittle,

hidden on serpentine paths,

dirt roads where policemen park

and talk about elections and little league

while sipping iced tea and submission.

Notes Written in Close Proximity to the Paschal Precipice

Liturgy begins in five hours and forty-five minutes. It feels, oddly, like preparing for a spacecraft launch to the moon. In fact, we may be going much, much further into the cosmos. Excitement is building! 

It is in this time of busyness, of preparation, of baking and boiling, of latticing and wrapping, of measuring and counting, of heating and cooling, that I sense the tension in my shoulders. I sense the pain in my back, and realize that any astronaut knows to rest before the launch. The journey that begins at 11pm is a long and rigorous (and joyful!) journey. I will need my strength for the upcoming liturgical perseverance. 

I brew my espresso, feeling instantly comforted by the tiny clink of cup and (mismatched, thrifted) saucer. I feel the rain-scented air, laden with sentiments equally soothing and ominous. I remember to breathe. 

And most of all, I try to remind myself, as I have had to remind myself so many times during the last fifty-odd days of lent...that no matter how badly I fail, no matter how hard I fall, Christ is still risen. Whether I make it to the Paschal services and picnics, or not, my joy can be recentered in that very sturdy, certain foundation. Apple pie or no apple pie. Pistachio ice cream or no pistachio ice cream.  

My failings (even the non-pie related, substantial failings) do not affect the great victory of the Son of God. I can rejoice right now (and BREATHE) and rest spiritually even in the midst of my struggle. 

It is great to struggle and succeed. It's great to work and taste the fruit of our labor. But what is really great is that even in my worst failings, Christ is victorious. In the midst of the most opaque and oppressive darkness, the true light is come. 

From here, even here, with my clumsy footing and tenuous grappling of faith, my outlook into the cosmos is bright, indeed. 

Christ is risen! Glorify Him!

-Natasha

Patience

A word of hope for women currently traversing a season of grief...

Over time, a great deal of time, her pain gave way to beauty. Her suffering was transformed through tears and the most severe humility to a quietness, an almost imperceptible peace, discerned only by those who knew where to look for it, and knew how to value it. 

She learned to whisper her light into the world, even as it was a speck of light on a black page, or one in a billion stars which nobody ever knew to single out and never got around to naming. She learned to whisper it anyway, a gentle fierceness emerging, certain only that it must be done because it was the right thing to do. 

Over time, like water that travels down a great many pebbles in a stream and journeys slowly over rock and around bend, leaving tender footprints in its wake, her pain did one day become something, something of value to her, and something which no other circumstance would ever be able to take away. She became wise and strong, though she would never suspect either quality to be her own, by virtue of her wisdom, for true wisdom is by its very nature humble. 

All these things took place over time, in and out of seasons, borne of a great deal of suffering and only after countless boring days and weeks which felt futile, wretched, and even entirely wasteful. They took place after seemingly interminable seasons of obscurity, loneliness, self-doubt, and confusion. After all, a ship which finds its dock is in no way assumed to have traversed entirely placid seas. Though her journey was stormy, her compass proved true in the end. 

And it was a beautiful homecoming indeed.