I've gotten out my taboo cards. What
little I remember of surrealism, is an idea that there is something
inside me, some message, that wants to come out. I simply need to
give it the opportunity to burst onto the scene. Say there are ten
things on a tray, and I have to tell a story with them. A glove, a
pony, a few coins, a singer, water, mayonnaise, something king-size,
speeding, summer, and green. Let's see. The singer wears a glove,
but why only one? Perhaps she can't find both, or maybe she is a
Michael Jackson fan. I picture a woman sitting by a fence, singing
her way through a hymnal. Perhaps a pony in the next field comes
over and nuzzles her. A highway is maybe ten feet from her. It is
the well-traveled way. Every now and then, another car comes
speeding down the road, shaking the whole world to the sound of the
music it's playing. But Micah's songs come from a very different
place. Once upon a time, her mom used to sing to her. Momma sang
about “The Birth of the Blues.”
Micah's frail heart wishes it had a
tune, all she has is this hymnbook. She pages through it, looking
for an elusive something, something to pour her paper heart into,
something to make her feel like a real person. A soft breeze plays
with the pages as she turns them. “I am weak but thou art strong;
Jesus, keep me from all wrong. I'll be satisfied as long, as I walk,
let me walk close to thee.” Could anything be close? Tears begin
to roll down her young cheeks. “Just a closer walk with thee.”
Her soul cuddles up with the familiar words. “Grant it, Jesus, is
my plea,” Her voice sounds so small. Trying again, a little
louder, a little stronger. “Thro' this world of toil and snares,
if I falter, Lord, who cares? Who with me my burden shares? None
but thee, dear Lord, none but thee.” Tears are falling more
rapidly now, unbidden. Momma would like that song. “Just a closer
walk with thee.” Back in the house, everyone expected her to be so
spiritual. Everyone was talking about heaven. Back there, she was
expected to smile, and play the hostess to relatives and friends
gathered to mourn. She thought about the service, they had just come
from. All those songs that she and her mother had loved together.
Momma's voice had become less certain as she grew older. Somehow,
when they were together, though, the old voice would ring out the
soprano, while Micah found a alto notes snuggling up next to momma's
strong melody. Now, all the tears that she couldn't cry at church
dripped one by one down her face. Paging through the tattered
hymnbook, she sings, “He hideth my soul in the cleft of the rock
That shadows a dry, thirsty land; He hideth my life in the depths of
his love, and covers me there with his hand.” Dry and thirsty,
yes, that's how the world felt today. The bright sunshine hides for
a moment behind a cloud. The sun holds itself aloof from this little
worship service. The woman feels like a young girl again, as she
carefully avoids the barbs that will tear at her clothes if she gets
too close. Soon, she would need to get back. People would wonder
what had happened to her. Everybody seemed so quietly worried about
her. Their worry was another weight to carry, as though losing her
mother wasn't enough. She had to exhibit the right mix of mourning
and psychological strength to reassure everyone. But, all she wanted
was to hear momma singing beside her. “Because He Lives” was one
of momma's favorite songs. “Because He lives I can face tomorrow;
because he lives all fear is gone; because I know he holds the
future, life is worth the living just because he lives.” Tomorrow,
what a dry, colorless thought. She would make it through tomorrow,
though. After all, there was no longer anyone to help if she fell
apart. I need your strength today, Lord. What is the verse?
“seeing that His divine power has granted to us everything
pertaining to life and godliness, through the true knowledge of Him
who called us by His own glory and excellence.” I need a portion
of that divine power, today, Father. I know you will give it. Thank
You. “Every good and perfect gift comes down from above, from the
Father of the heavenly lights, with whom there is no shifting
shadow.” Is the loss of momma a gift, Lord? She lived so many
years with constant pain in so many of her joints. I'm glad to know
that she is in heaven with You. Thank You for this moment. Thank
You for the bright sunshine, and the quiet grass. I guess I better
get going. People will miss me. Thank You for being here with me.
Someday, momma, I will meet you in heaven; and we will sing and sing
and sing for a million glorious days. But, I better be going . . .
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