Sometimes the only thing you need is a glimpse
A framed view through the forged clear of a thousand crystals, molted and poured, transfigured into thin transparent beauty, is this what has grown strong all around yet still out of focus, blurry edged by life and the everyday of living.
How is that I am the last to see those prayed for miracles, faithfully filled?
I, scrubbing hard at the pots, sat-over three meals, oats and soup and dinners still clinging, grease and grim and toil and it is this that steals me away from a sanctuary of rest.
Here is another of my daily alters, a wash bin, suds and the fervent prayers of the simple.
‘Oh my Lord heal, masterfully sculpt what you have placed together, imbed in me the wisdom mothering requires, may I sense your Holy hands cradling my trepid steps, oh that I may lead them to you’
Weakness comes bent over this domestic place of pray, all my broken sloshing around, I say it to heaven that moment
Ever so gently I hear ‘look up and see’.
This view from my sink above this alter that has caught my tears, a miracle, all of them together, peaceful and precious with the girl who has been ‘Promised Grace’ sitting under heaven with the leaves and sky of spring singing hosannas.
Beauty that clears
She could have been ripped from this earth, aborted and lost. Never held, never cherished. Neglect could have continued, never a lullaby, never sweet nothings whispered, long nights of whimpering for a mother to meet basic needs. I still shudder to think of her home coming week, how she slept for twenty-four hours solid, a three-month’s learnt ability to shelter her infant fragility. How her first mother wanted, tried terminating life. Over and over again. When I asked her why she never chose the way of the world, she said it ‘I could never open the door of the clinic, it just always felt too heavy to open’.
Another miracle, one I could have missed. The month we started our pray for this child, the one yet brought to us, how we asked for protection, Jesus to shelter when we ‘future’ parents could not. Our prayers begun the month God started to knit her perfection in the dark womb of another.
I am learning ever so slowing,
The most powerful prayers come from thunder of our hurt
This beauty viewed from the broken is the miracle, soft and simple and almost missed.