Consolation

Consolation

It’s shocking how fast darkness strikes the heights

Where I’ve glued my feet to the narrow path.

The cry tears through my chest,

A song interrupted.

My foot is slipping!

Help! My foot is slipping!

Like Peter striding sure on the sea,

Right after left after right,

I’m stranded suddenly and sinking,

Smacked in the back by the wave of fear.

Curse that opportunist that follows so closely on the heels of faith!

Sheer terror curses, too:

Oh God! My foot is slipping!

Drop.

Is that really what I heard?

Yes.

Drop the heroic wave walking.

Drop from the high wire you strung up yourself

And named the narrow path.

Drop.

I will catch you.

I’m much too clumsy to execute a dismount.

I drop everything,

Good and bad both:

It’s all or nothing with me.

I freefall fast, flailing,

Wailing.

I told you my foot was slipping!

The jagged edged echo of my accusation follows me for a time,

But soon I’m so far removed from it

That it’s somehow ceased to be important.

With a grace not my own,

My fall is finessed

Into the perfect tuck and roll.

I’ve taken on the shape of a small smooth stone

That lands polished in the palm of your hand.

I meant to do that.

It’s not my voice that says it

To salvage a shred of my pride.

It’s yours.

I meant to do that.

There’s a chuckle in your words.

They’re not unkind.

After a time,

When the shaking has stopped

And my breath has slowed to match your heartbeat,

You uncurl your fingers.

I take my first timid steps back on high ground.

I can sing a little bit now.

The notes come out light,

And the words are small and distinct,

A trail of smooth white pebbles.

The path is indeed narrow,

But only where the light hits the pebbles,

Marking one sure step at a time.

“When I said, ‘My foot is slipping,’ your love, O Lord, supported me. When anxiety was great within me, your consolation brought joy to my soul.” ‒Psalm 94:18-19

‒erinrmsocha 6-24-2020

Expectation

Expectation

(Psalm 5:3, John 11:1-44)

In the morning, O Lord, you hear my voice;

In the morning I lay my requests before you and wait in expectation,

And wait in expectation,

And wait. . .

Unto death.

Unbearable is the winding down to the whimper

That ushers in the void

Lurking on the back side of expectation.

It happens too fast

And much too slowly.

Here in our shuttered room by his side,

Time creeps at lightning speed.

Why are you not here yet?

Come quickly!

I need your grand entrance.

I watch the door in expectation.

Every moment balances on the verge:

You bang open the door with a brassy blast of triumph!

You don’t.

The only sign of life in the stifling room

Is the constant zing of my anxiety.

Strangely, it breathes freely amid the fug of despair.

And strangely, but slightly less freely, so does hope.

I know you’ll show up.

I wait in expectation.

Whatever happens next,

I will still have faith in you.

I know that you are God.

When asked, I will still declare it.

But, Jesus, must we miss out on our chance for a miracle?

You heal the masses!

He’s our brother whom you love,

And you love us.

We sent word!

I cannot know that even as I wait expectantly,

Even as he breathes,

Breathes again,

And soon will breathe no more,

You know exactly what you are doing.

How must you be feeling?

You deliberately delay your coming

With full knowledge of the risks‒

My deflated expectations,

My grief,

My misunderstanding,

My accusation‒

And with full knowledge of the other side of that moment

When you will show me more of your glory

Than I even know how to expect.

You will weep.

You will weep for my pain

And for the very real limits of my very real faith.

In this moment,

I believe in you.

I believe I will see the glory of God.

And so I wait in expectation,

Here by the side of my dying brother,

Not yet knowing we are all on the verge

Of life after death.

‒erinrmsocha 6-1-2020