Poems, Prayers, and Promises
Today was a celebration because we talked about the weather and forgot to mention how cold it’s been. And because we were asked if we were crazy for walking barefoot in the snowy sand and jumping into the puddles made by the ocean. Our feet remembered of the days they had been used to walking around hot pavements on summer days when we walked across the parking lot today: the burning from the cold cement an adumbration to the return of elongated days and sunshine on our knees.
When you wait for spring, you begin your prayers by crying, because it was a painful winter this year. But those memories melt into your friend’s laughter because- remember that time you drank soda for the first time in half a decade and we couldn’t stop burping and choking on each other’s shrieking and cackling? 3 am and we picnicked in the hall with McDonald’s because we decided calories and time didn’t scare us anymore. And that time we watched Brokeback Mountain without our parents’ permission- no, the time we played spoons to try and make friends and just got overwhelmed? We learned to come home when we looked into each other’s eyes, celebrate the Sabbath by holding hands and [too often] eating chocolate croissants late at night. And when you wait for spring, your prayers end in thanksgiving because the heart is poor, the mind is desperate, and your friend’s smile reminds you of sunshine. So you drive with one foot on the pedal and the other out of the window, eyes closed: worship.
It’s 30 degrees outside, friends. So we go get ice cream, and we are allowed three of our eleven expired coupons. And I remember learning about that one monk [though I’ve forgotten his name] that went into the desert to pick up his cross and follow Jesus. But in his solitude, his hands were too full fighting demons to hold anything else. And he heard Jesus tell him to go back to the community. And as his hands were filled with others’, there was no more room for the demons.
Today was a celebration, because we were told to leave the desert, and when your hands filled mine there was no more room but for Resurrection.