Words are our way, the Spirit and I—how I’ve learned to interpret my world of unexpected turns. And when life twists again it is Sunday.
The little ones are strapped in the backseat and my husband turned to me with a crinkled brow, how he wears his concern.
I look and my husband’s tie is a bit crooked and my dress belt feels too tight around my waist. But we don’t waver because we wear Christ beneath the material. And we swallow blood-bought grace.
I imagine my thirteen year old at a different home this morning, with her other family, getting ready for church all alone. And her angry father on the phone with us—telling us she doesn’t really want to go.
And those words leave a weight against my chest. And I can’t stop carrying my children in my womb, even when they are walking away on their own two feet.
She is heavy now—weightier with time. And there are places she will have to walk without me. Follow the narrow way for her, not me. She will have to want it. This is what almost rips me open—that she gets to choose. We all get the chance to say ‘no thank you Lord.’
I didn’t hear the end—how we came to have peace about the whole thing, but he hangs up and strokes my hand. He asks me to say something, but I am looking up into the sky, following the line of sunshine. Mostly, waiting for Spirit words because that’s our way.
He nods, understands me, and shuffles into the sanctuary for some tithe envelopes while I sit with the girls in the car. The door clicks closed and I cry—bleed out the pain so I can speak. Wet grief pours over my cheeks, blush washing away. Mother tears I call them: Salty hopes whispered heavenward. Groaning’s only God can hear.
One of the little souls in the back wants to know why I am crying. She begs for me to quiet my sobs and share a bit of me for her to hold. Her age is in her words, and for the next few moments I wrap myself in them.
5 When the days of feasting had completed their cycle, Job would send and consecrate them, rising up early in the morning and offering (I)burnt offerings according to the number of them all; for Job said, “(J)Perhaps my sons have sinned and (K)cursed God in their hearts.” Thus Job did continually. (Job 1:5 NAS)
And while I pat away the pain on my cheeks, I pray for my child. Carry her as my burden to Christ; release my cares for her spirit to the Spirit, keeper of all. Until all my children buckle under the weight of sin. I will carry them, cover them, and cry endless tears until they are home.
Thank you Holy Spirit, for giving me words after many days of praying and waiting.