Many moons ago, on a dark winter night, as the children lay nestled in warm beds and my husband reclined pale and motionless in his chair, I wrapped myself in a thick coat, pulled boots upon weary feet, and ventured out into the bitter loneliness.
My emergence was greeted by a silent dirt road, my being enveloped by the brisk air as the blackness provided shelter from the rest of humanity. Nothing but stillness awaited my pilgrimage. I was free.
I glanced to the left and recognized a spattering of houses and to the right – nothing but naked branches swaying in the stagnant air. I leaned into the vacancy and began moving, one foot in front of the other – the vicious cold biting my face and freezing the tears as they fell. I walked in penance for whatever grave sin I had committed – a sin which had led to a recent life of so much pain and heartache. I knew that surely if my husband held the strength to wage war against numerous rounds of poison, and my son had the strength to defy the proclamations of death voiced against him, and my children possessed the strength to look into the abyss of eternity staring back at them through their daddy’s hollow gaze, then surely – SURELY - I could face whatever lay ahead. And so I walked. I walked the coals – the clear crystal coals intermingled with the frozen ground. And nothing moved. And all was silent.
I walked and I paused and I crumpled to the earth, fists curled and pumping into the night sky -
“CURSE YOU NIGHT!” I screamed.
I screamed and I screamed until the noise was deafened by gasps - gasps of oxygen being pumped into a broken heart, gasps of air reviving a weary soul, and then I rose, yet again, to face my tormentor and crumpled beneath the weight of the heavy cold air. I wrestled and rose and cursed and moaned and fell again and again and again, all to the beat of the maestro’s baton, to the beat of the never-ending drum of life.
Eventually I grew weary, as we all do, and I turned back– slowly fixing my gaze to reality, the dim lights flickering through the swaying trees – ready to return to my life- a haven of pain and grief and joy.
This Do In Remembrance Of Me
Breaking the bread and drinking the cup – wrestling, walking, moaning, cursing, accepting – traditions which enable our remembrance. The bread and the wine; the aching joints and all of the movements that stir our remembrance of something greater than ourselves – a remembrance of His faithfulness.
I still walk in the bitter air, but I no longer seek the solitude of the night. I now turn to face the warmth of the sun, often walking hand in hand with those I love - those born of the light. The bitter cold of what was and the warmth of what is – of how life can unravel at any moment into something bright and beautiful and unexpected.
Choosing life. Choosing warmth. Choosing light. Choosing to Just Keep Livin.