“Your audience awaits,” he said. “Go.”
I am a good wife and always do just what he says, and so—
Five weeks later, he showed up on my Why I Blog page and said, “If you let this go much longer, you’ll have to change the title to Why I Don’t Blog. I’m waiting…”
The sky is blue in Meadville, PA and the tulips, the long-suffering often-frozen thoroughly-confused tulips, are thinking of blooming. Perennial herbs are raising their curly heads from the beds into which I tucked them, and blinking off the sleep and the darkness.
We made it.
My path to holiness took me through a place where the silence was so intense I could hear it dripping, dripping, into the dark. I felt the water rising and could not remember how to swim. But every time the dusky eyes of the smallest looked into mine, joy caught hold and spun me, buoyant and dizzy. (I have never known a child of more joy.) The path rose up and the waters fell and I laughed, but in the night I could feel the darkness breathing behind me, almost upon me, nipping, breathing, and I cried against his shoulder help me, help me.
Some drownings are necessary to endure, like baptism
And wild things breathing hate the light
And all nights have a morning.
That is why he said Go, because the words can kindle joy and hold the dark at bay. So can greening herbs and baby eyes and sapphire skies and (surprisingly) the starry streaks of tears.
I am still a mother of six, and a broken child of God, and a woman learning to live. I am still on the path. Going.