Living Psalm 121 (Children’s Sunday, Laity Sunday) – Surrender

I sit in the center of the labyrinth 
next to a church that has been closed for a year.
I arrived with my children and their friends, 
but they have headed off to the cliff, to the trail 
that leads down to the beach. 

I don’t blame them - it’s the perfect day for it.
The sky is wide and blue, the air is cool but the sand 
still holds warmth from summer’s tenure. Tomorrow is fall, 
and I’m afraid. That’s why I’m sitting here, you know. 
I let them go ahead. I didn’t ask anyone to wait, because 
how could I explain this away, make the broken parts 
of me seem casual, or at least cared for?

What if I had said to them, to the children with the laughing eyes,
to the generation who has never known anything but this,
that there once was a time when I used the hose without thought?
That there were whole seasons when a light jacket was all 
I needed every day. They would shake their heads at me, 
call me old and out of touch. The world has always been burning, 
they would say, so today, we must find someone or something 
to love. Or else. Or else what, I would ask. (I am desperate to know.) 
Or else what is the  point, they would chide me. (Of course.)

Sitting here without my phone, without a care in the world,
or at least one that requires my attention or expertise,
I hear their voices drifting up. They sound gloriously happy,
and I want to stand and run to them. I try. I really do,
but I am rooted here in the center, with the hurt that drew me in.

I’ll just close my eyes and breathe, and that will be it. I will be
free of the chains that bind me. I will get up and walk out of here 
wiser, and there will be space behind my ribs that I will fill
with delirious joy, because the children are right. The stories
tell us the world has always burned - and although my feet 
have not always been this close to the fire, someone’s have.

Yes, I think confidently, suffering is eternal 
and everlasting, Amen. Then I remember, abruptly, 
the first time I heard the phrase never put a period 
where God has placed a comma. This was years ago, 
when the living was easy, or at least easier for me.
The minister was kind, and funny, and she had a small church 
with thoughtful people who made me feel welcome. 
When we sang together, it was slightly out of tune, 
and beautiful. The sanctuary was filled with light too, 
I remember that. It had been designed to let in the light. 

Against all odds, I manage to stand. I was designed, 
or so God has seen fit to remind me, to let the light in. 
God must know how I snuff the light at every opportunity, 
how I hate the cracks where the light shines through, 
not because I hate the light, but because the cracks
are a reminder of all I have failed to do.

I’m still in one piece though, so I suppose there’s that. 

And not far away, there are people who love me,
who reach for this soft body and see the protection
it has provided them, the warrior woman who has fought
for them and lost. (But also won. At  least occasionally,
I have won.) 

Maria Mankin (she/her)