Sunday’s Journey
Sometimes, the extraordinary comes wrapped
in silence and hoarfrost.
Fog the night before—and often it is foggy
before spledour bursts—and more fog in the morning, but there was light to see, so I venture out. And the
fog blesses every branch and blade
with thickly delicate frost. Laden heavy with weightlessness, boughs linger
gleeful for morning sun. But this moment
is for me, for me to share with waiting creation. I run in the silence, the
hush of this moment, and am gentled into
glory. No camera, no way of documenting it, I must instead labour, to
associate, to think deeper; and I must remember.
Round the lake in whispers, my breathing
the only wind, my strides the only motor, I join the silent song, and let my
mind grow quiet; content to praise and pant and know I am alive.
The old graveyard rests peaceful just off
the path. And today I can live spontaneously, because today is a gift, so I travel up, and run along the fence,
my feet leaving prints in the whitened grass. I look for his resting place,
where we laid his body sixteen years ago. I’ve never visited Papa’s grave in
all that time. But today is the day to live, and remember, and live deeper for the
recollection.
I find his stone by his parents’ graves.
The wheat heads and wild roses etched deep and simple into granite, the plain
script and humble angle—these tell his story. He worked the land his whole
life, saw the shift of industry, watched the world change around him, and still
he plowed and harvested. Tilling came as a curse to Adam, yet it has turned to
blessing, because there Papa found his identity, and his God. And he lost
nothing for bowing his head in humility, and braving death’s scythe. He gained, and we his children reap the
harvest he cultivated.
I kneel and brush a granite chip off the
slab. And even our firmest edifices fade and erode, and the only things that last forever are the things we can’t see or
handle. A seed in husk nestles in the etched letters. I brush it out and
let it fall to the ground. And if it dies to itself, it will bear much fruit—it
will not be utterly alone. How strange
the paradox of grace.
I lift my hand from the stone. The moist,
warm imprint echoes like a shadow: dark, yet fading. And our warmth is a
shadow, a brief touch, a fragile breath. And it tells us there is better air we
have not breathed, vistas we have not reached, a whole world we have not known
. . . a world we were made for.
Fog recedes as sun rises. Mists lift like
organza plumes. The very earth seems to exhale its first fresh breath, sighing
chiffon vapours to the heavens. And I breathe, heart slowed, soul stilled. I breathe to heaven in this place, and
remember that I am a breath, and Heaven gives me life, and I labour with joy to
breathe its air, as the fog lifts, and the thin veil shivers and fades.
This
is hope, wrapped in hoarfrost.
