moonlit intercession October 15, 2008

In the late hours of the evening and early hours of the morning she strolls across the moonlit lawn. Head down, eyes combing the ground for nothing at all, she follows her own shadow–that region of darkness that’s a little denser than the rest. Even though she seems to be going nowhere in particular, you know she isn’t lost except in her own thoughts. Do come closer; she is a docile creature and not easily spooked. Listen to her whispers and you may come to understand why she wanders thus…

She pauses. The whole landscape is quiet. This must be one of those “sweet hours of prayer” your grandmother sang about… but it doesn’t look so sweet for this woman. Although the moon is full and the stars are as bright as ever they have been, her shoulders remain bowed and her face toward the ground. She ceases her pacing and takes cover in a magnolia tree, from which she utters groans so heavy as to snap the branches. Words are indistinguishable now; but she is wholly unconcerned with your ears. She cries past the trees, past the clouds, beyond the moon, out among the stars to Someone for an audience…and a deep silence responds. Will no one help her? Is there not an answer in all the universe for this broken one?

And then she, too, becomes quiet. Still weeping, she rocks back and forth against the unmoving tree trunk… (or is Someone rocking her?) Beneath her heaving sobs, you think you hear a low murmer in comforting tones, as a father soothing his daughter back to sleep after a nightmare. Do not be afraid. I heard you crying. The moans subside; slowly her sighs become steady and less sorrowful. Shhh. Be still. I am here.

Slipping down from among the branches, she slowly returns out of the tree’s thick shadow into the moonlight. Her face is still streaked with tears, but her demeanor has been altered by this encounter. Instead of hanging low from her shoulders, her head is uplifted as she gazes upon this landscape. It is as though she sees more than the individual blades of grass, more than the contours of the tree bark, more than the height of the wisps of cloud  drifting by. As her eyes dart from one to the other, her whole body follows in what is at first awkward and jerky motion, but gradually turns to graceful wheeling about: leaping, floating, arms spread wide to welcome in her newfound joy. All the while she is singing, whispering, shouting:

He is here! HE is here! He IS here! He is HERE! HE IS HERE!

“You have turned for me my mourning into dancing.”  Psalm 30:11

sweet laughter and sunshine October 7, 2008

It is cool this Saturday morning. Cool, but not chilly enough to keep the children indoors. They have waited for the freedom of a weekend for the past five days; now is the time to forget all except being. Their itching desire granted, they fly into the woods, weaving in and out each between the other, taking turns in leading. They glide low to the ground; the only things connecting them to the earth are two bicycle wheels apiece. Laughter, sweet laughter reverberates through the forest mingled with snatches of simple songs shouted in carefree discord.

Being children, they tire and distract easily, so a casual observer is not at all surprised to find their vehicles hastily propped against the trees as they explore the swing set and conquer the slide. Two of them soar to the treetops, only to veer away at the last second and dive toward the ground in a wide arc which travels back and forth between earth and sky as long as they wish it. A whoosh coupled with a delighted scream and ending with a thunk signals the end of one girl’s flight as she catapults herself out of the swing. The adventuresome three dare one another to ascend the ladder and descend by way of simply letting gravity pull them down a shiny slick slope. This lack of control over their own movement is thrillingly terrifying; but one by one they make the trek up and the slide down, raising their hands above their heads to prove to the others they aren’t afraid.

The expedition continues. Three bicycles zip down the path, stirring up and crunching over dry leaves. They swerve around bumps in the way, or sometimes purposely run over them to hear the rhythmic bouncing in their own voices. Every so often they pause for breath; just long enough to spy upon a spider spinning her threads high out of reach, or to climb onto fence posts in search of a different perspective.

All too soon the appointed hour arrives. Reluctantly, these friends point their bicycles toward the starting place and let themselves be carried thither. But as they approach this point, one notices a change in the group’s demeanor; it is as though they are shouldering a weight which they managed to shed for these few hours. Years seem to pass within their bubble of space; four, then seven, then ten, then twelve have come and gone by the time they reach the parking lot to load up the bikes. Adults now, they travel in an automobile back to the campus on the south side of town; back to homework and essays and lab reports and tests.

And yet not all has been lost; each moment spent in sweet laughter and sunshine has shaved an ounce off the grown-up burdens they carry. For a little while, at least, they retain a certain childlike glow. It begs the question, If three college students relive their innocent days in the woods and no one is around to see them, was the innocence ever really lost?