by Marie Howe
Every day I want to speak with you. And every day something more important
calls for my attention—the drugstore, the beauty products, the luggage
I need to buy for the trip.
Even now I can hardly sit here
among the falling piles of paper and clothing, the garbage trucks outside
already screeching and banging.
The mystics say you are as close as my own breath.
Why do I flee from you?
My days and nights pour through me like complaints
and become a story I forgot to tell.
Help me. Even as I write these words I am planning
to rise from the chair as soon as I finish this sentence.
It seems after ascending some ladders, I have landed on a long old chute. Waaah! Due to a small series of unfortunate events, down I've slidden, lickety split. I'm a tad too caught up in mayhem at the moment to turn myself back in the right direction. And my faith, too weary to ponder even noble theological truths or historical Church Tradition, has been boiled down to this:
This morning I woke up acutely aware that recent conundrums sprouting up here and there and everywhere have got me stumped – I appear to be a bit in over my head. And oddly enough, my default defense mechanism (despite the fact I clearly know better) is to avoid silence, avoid stillness. That'll learn me to subconsciously assume I'm on the up and up and up. None of us is less vulnerable than anyone else to setbacks – me most definitely included.
But honest and true, I've been undeservedly blessed with the ability to view this particular setback, this "I have no idea what I'm dooooiiiing" phase of motherhood I've stumbled into, as the extended hand of Christ reaching out for my helpless soul.
Now will you let Me take over?
This post is a message from myself to myself:
Stop running already. Start praying.