maranatha

I try to say the story of my thoughts with a smile. The boy does the same. Our pantomime set upon the dusty streets.

The pastor's wife, stopping me, turning to her husband to translate words for which I need no translation.

Seeing defeat of dread at every door, courage in tremors of terror. Breathe, breathe.

A celebration of the difference of one.

I am taught the ways of courage from a fifteen-year-old, ready to speak, ready to relent.

A fire and the boy sits beside me, looking to make sure I sing the wrong words. Again, the language of a smile.

Perhaps the strongest is the smallest.

Walking songs of animal sound in pack and joy.

The oldest gives his day to climb and cut and hammer.

They give their days their wage their home their food and say we bless them.

Shedding shared tears with a man I have seen fifteen days of my life below a new home.

Maranatha

1 comment:

Garnett said...

I glimpse your pain. Glimpse your hope. Glimpse. But the beauty of that ending... It's a sweet view in.