Everyone in Their Separate Houses

Lily lay in her bed and stared at the ceiling. There were so many hours until her alarm. The bed wasn’t quite right no matter how she moved her pillows, and she couldn’t tell yet if it was worth deep-breathing for an hour or if she should turn on a light and start reading. She could feel the invisible rubber band around her chest getting tighter, and her hair kept being in the wrong place. Her parents thought she was getting into trouble. She couldn’t tell them the trouble was inside her own mind. She was so alone.

 

Yolanda was desperately tired, but every time she put Levi in his bed, he woke up again. She had planned to go to bed as soon as he was down, but three hours later he wasn’t down yet. Michael was snoring like a chainsaw. Of course he was; he didn’t have boobs. Yolanda dropped a tear on Levi’s head, startling him. Tomorrow she would see if the girl next door could come over and babysit for a couple of hours after school.

 

Alex was staring at the tv, but he wasn’t really watching it. It was background noise; it was part of the act. It was how he kept his thoughts from getting too desperate. He just kept going back and forth – should he or shouldn’t he? Should he or shouldn’t he? He envied Michael across the street so much. Married, and a beautiful baby, and a year younger than Alex to boot. Jenna wasn’t ready to get married, and Alex was done with going out every weekend. He wanted to settle down. Deep down, he knew that if he stayed with Jenna it wouldn’t work out. He had to break up with her. It was going to suck.

 

Henry and Agnes slept holding hands. After Henry’s heart attack three years ago, Agnes insisted on it; she couldn’t fathom life without him. Henry didn’t mind. Oh, there were times when he watched that boy next door bring his girl indoors, and they weren’t very discreet, and he missed his youth. But after the heart attack he had dropped his longing for the past and focused on the present. Agnes was no sex kitten, but she loved him, and she still made his sandwiches. And when he overheard Alex and Jenna argue, or when he saw Yolanda and Michael’s exhausted faces in the morning, he didn’t miss his youth as much as he once did.

He moved his hand; it was enough to wake Agnes.

“What is it?”

“We should have them all over,” he said quietly.

“Who?”

“The kids. On our street.”

“Why on earth have you woken me up at midnight to say this, Henry Robinson?”

Henry smiled in the dark. She wasn’t angry. “I was just thinking how lonely it was. Especially in the nights.”

“But why not just tell me in the morning?” She was tired. He felt a little bit guilty for waking her.

“Their lights are on. See? That’s the girl’s bedroom, the teenager. Her parents are downstairs worrying about her. And next door is the family with the baby. Do you remember how tired we were?”

Agnes was fully awake now, sitting up. She nodded.

“And that boy next door. His girlfriend isn’t right for him. He looks so sad all the time. He’s watching that ridiculous television for hours every night. They’re all so alone, Agnes.”

“We were alone. We managed.”

“But wouldn’t it have been better if someone had noticed?”

“Well, you’re a fool. You don’t even remember their names.”

“What difference does that make? They still need to know.”

“Know what?”

“They aren’t alone.”

 

Lily hadn’t expected to stay at the barbecue. She was fidgeting in her seat. She hadn’t said a word for the entire evening, and had felt keenly the embarrassment of her parents towards their socially awkward daughter. But she stayed. When it was over, the host, Henry, looked like he wanted to give her a hug. She dropped her eyes and picked at her sleeve. He put a hand on her shoulder, and said softly, “You’re a good kid.” Lily looked up with surprise, and so did her parents.

Agnes chatted with Yolanda, and baby Levi lay on his blanket on the grass, cooing at the breeze.

Michael and Alex had a long conversation. When it was over, Alex wiped his eyes and left, already dialling Jenna’s number.

Agnes leaned into Henry, and he put an arm around her, a comfortable, familiar gesture. “You’re a good man, Henry Robinson.”

By midnight, the street was dark.

 

what to do when it happens again

On the surface, everything is calm.

She feels calm. She drinks her tea, eats her breakfast, gets dressed, brushes her teeth. The children get ready for school with their usual fights and screaming, as though they don’t sense that this calm is not a safe one. Something is wrong, but something is always wrong. Every day something is churning deep, deep below them.our

They leave the house. She is alone. She makes herself another cup of tea.

She sits down at her desk, wakes up her laptop, checks her email. Nothing important. She settles in to work, still calm, her hands steady. Nothing is wrong.

At lunchtime, she submits her reports and stands up to stretch. There are leftovers in the fridge and she eats them at the table with her book, the one for her book club. It doesn’t hold her interest but she keeps turning the pages anyway.

The dishes go in the dishwasher. The kettle goes on for another cup of tea. She goes upstairs to the bathroom, then comes down again. Her tea steeps, and she looks out the window at the grey and brown of early spring, the squirrels skittering through the trees, the chickadees singing for mates. Nothing remarkable anywhere.

The timer beeps for her tea, startling her. It’s too harsh. She takes it back to her desk and sits down again, but this time, she can’t concentrate. The timer is not that big a deal, she tells herself. It just startled you. You should go for a walk, or call someone.

She stares at her computer screen. She picks up her tea, and her hands are shaking so badly that she spills tea on her lap. It burns, and she cries out.

Get a grip, she tells herself savagely. You’re slipping.

She slams her laptop shut. Takes her tea to the kitchen and dumps it down the drain. Goes upstairs to change her jeans.

In the bathroom, she opens the medicine cabinet behind the mirror. Her gaze is briefly caught by the neat rows of Advil and Tylenol and half-finished prescriptions. But she doesn’t need those; she needs the list on the back of the mirror.

WHAT TO DO WHEN IT HAPPENS AGAIN

There is a list of phone numbers, a list of activities, and a crisis protocol. Right beneath the heading it says IF YOU CAN’T DECIDE, FOLLOW THE CRISIS PROTOCOL.

She is surprised to find tears on her cheeks, but they shouldn’t be a surprise. She never wanted to do this again.

With a sigh, she takes the piece of chalk from its place on the shelf and goes back downstairs.

She pulls back the area rug and draws a wobbly circle on the hardwood. She writes the letters CMXI in the centre. She takes the first candle she can find, a disgusting “clean laundry” scented one, and lights it. She puts it down inside the circle. She gets her book club book and sits down in the circle to wait for help to arrive.

The Council of Literary Heroines: The Letheans

Read Part 1

Norah was thankful to discover that she was on the espresso bar when she got to work. It gave her a chance to zone out a bit and think. She only needed a tiny fraction of her brain to make lattes, especially for all the morning regulars. Phoebe was working the till so they didn’t really get a chance to talk until the morning rush slowed down. Phoebe came back to help her wipe down and restock the bar.

“Did you get anything else written last night?”

“No. Just a start. But the weirdest thing happened this morning.”

“I was going to ask you what is up, you seem really in your head! I thought maybe you were just composing your opus.”

“I am a bit, but mostly because of what happened. I met my main character.”

“Oh that’s important! What is she like? Or is it a he?”

“No, you don’t understand, and you are not going to believe this.”

“Try me.”

“Ok. I mean I literally met my main character. In the flesh.”

“You mean like someone who inspired you?”

“No, I mean my actual main character.”

Phoebe looked blankly at Norah. They usually didn’t have this much trouble communicating. Phoebe was naturally intuitive but this also made her skeptical. Norah was wracking her brain for a way to explain when the woman walked in.

“That’s her!”

Phoebe didn’t have a chance to respond because the woman came up to the till and ordered a tea. She smiled at Norah and said “I would love to sit and chat with you more. And with you, Phoebe, if you want.”

Phoebe gave Norah a look. When the woman went and sat down she said “this is getting really weird but I am just going with it. I am guessing that’s her?”

Norah breathed a sigh of relief. “Yeah.”

Just then the next shift arrived. Phoebe had a lunch break and Norah was done for the day.

“Shall we go and talk to her?” Phoebe asked?

“Sure. I only met her briefly this morning. She is from the Council of Literary Heroines. Apparently I wrote enough last night to conjure her into being.”

When they all sat down together Norah and the woman took turns catching her up on the brief encounter that morning. Then the woman turned to Norah and said “it wasn’t really fair of me earlier, to ask you to commit to writing your story, when you don’t know everything that is involved.”

“What do you mean?” Norah asked.

“There are forces involved in this that are very powerful. They are the forces that make people forget the stories, both the fairy tales and the modern ones, and even make them forget their own stories. When you don’t remember the stories, including your own, then you are more likely to make destructive choices.”

“What are these forces? Do they have a name?”

“They are called many things, and very few people know their true name, which is how they would have it. They are called the Letheans, because they make people forget.”

“Wait. Letheans? Like as in the river Lethe?” Norah was familiar with mythology, and she had studied Greek in university.

“Yes, just like. They make people forget.”

“How exactly?”

“They have many ways of erasing memories, but their main tool is their ability to leach the beauty out of the world. They can’t actually take it away, but they are very good at distracting people so much that people can’t see the beauty right in front of their faces any more. They use money, power, anything in their grasp to lure people away from the truth. Then the people who do see are so marginalized that people tend to think they are crazy. In your case, Norah, they are using fear and monotony to dull your ability to see clearly. But you are stronger than they have imagined, I think. And you have a friend who is stronger still.”

“Me?” Phoebe asked.

“Yes, you are a naming force. You see the power Norah has as a storyteller, and you push her and encourage her to use it. The beginning of her story wouldn’t exist without you, Phoebe, and I wouldn’t either. Together you can be a powerful force for truth and remembering. But you should also know the dangers. Once the Letheans realize you intend to write your story, they will do everything in their power to stop you.”

“Why is my story so important?”

“I don’t fully understand that, and neither does the Council, but sometimes there are hinge moments, where the balance of the world can be tipped by just one small thing, and right now, that small things seems to be your story.”

Norah wasn’t sure why, but she believed the woman. “I hardly understand this at all, but I suppose I have to try. I really don’t know where to start, though.”

“Phoebe was right, you need to just sit down and write. The story will come through you if you just begin.”

Norah looked at Phoebe, who smiled and nodded at her, and then looked at the woman. “Well, I suppose I should start by giving you a name. I know what it is now.”

The woman looked up hopefully.

“It’s Aletheia.”

Aletheia smiled, and her edges seemed to grow stronger.

Evergreen, Everblue

i.

 

I’m outside

K coming

Evelyn quickly put her phone back in her purse and put her mittens back on. The van was still cold and no matter what technology they put into the thumbs, texting was clumsy at best with mittens on. The air was frigid, and the bare trees sparkled with frost.

“I am FREEZING,” said Sally from the back seat. Evelyn glanced at her in the mirror and barely kept from rolling her eyes.

“It is minus twenty and you’re not wearing your parka,” she said. “Or mittens. Or hat. Or anything.”

“Mom. I won’t need them at the mall, and carrying them around is literally the worst.”

“Sally, how many times to I have to tell you…”

“Yes, fine, not literally and not the worst, but it is very hot to carry a parka around the mall and I do not regret my decision except that right now I am as cold as polar bear tits.”

“Sally.” But Evelyn couldn’t stop herself from smirking a little, and Sally saw it in the mirror.

The passenger door opened and Lotta threw herself and a bulging backpack into the van.

“I am EXHAUSTED,” she declared.

“Are you now,” said Evelyn. “Are you literally the most tired anyone has ever been, including me when you breastfed for an entire night without ceasing?”

“You are so dramatic, Mom,” said Lotta.

“Yes, of course, I am the dramatic person in this vehicle. No one has ever been more dramatic. Dear God, when will I ever learn to just chill.”

Lotta didn’t even respond to the sarcasm. She turned in her seat to face Sally, and the two girls launched into a gossip rundown that Evelyn couldn’t hope to understand.

 

When they got to the mall, the parking lot was already crowded.

“Are you girls sure you want to do this?”

“This was your idea, Mom.”

“Right, yes, okay. Let’s get it over with.”

Within five minutes Evelyn was sweating in her parka but didn’t want to have to carry it. The girls were in Anthropologie, squealing over something tiny and sequined. Evelyn looked over the hideously expensive tree ornaments and wondered where her festive spirit had gone. She knew the answer, but wished for a different one. The year had been devastating, both for their family and for the people in their circles. Christmas Eve marked the anniversary of the death of her best friend Crystal’s mother. Lotta and Sally had both had tragedy in their social circles. And Evelyn and Mark had spent months in triage counselling, trying to save their marriage. Evelyn still wasn’t sure they had done enough, but at least they were still working on it. She wondered if this was the true marker of middle age – all the joyful events of her younger years, the graduations and weddings and births and exciting promotions, slowly being replaced by heartbreaking losses and events. You’re being dramatic again, she told herself. She might roll her eyes at her daughters’ hyperbole, but they came by it honestly.

“Mom, snap out of it!” said Lotta. “We’re done.”

Sally was holding a sparkly paper bag and was beaming. “I can’t wait to wear it!”

Evelyn didn’t ask what it was, or how much it had cost. “Where next?”

“Coffee?” Lotta asked.

“Yes, our treat, Mom.”

“You don’t have to do that,” Evelyn protested. “I can buy it.”

They sandwiched their mother in a hug.

“You need it. And we appreciate that you’re doing this for us.”

Evelyn blinked back tears she didn’t want them to see, and asked for the hundredth time what she’d done to get such loving daughters.

 

ii.

 

“It’s almost Christmas, it’s almost Christmas!”

Lotta and Sally were dancing around the living room, home from their last day of school before the holidays. Lotta was wearing a Santa hat and Sally had found a bright red onesie with a butt flap. They looked ridiculous.

“You girls are too old for this!” snapped Mark, sitting in his armchair and looking at the newspaper on his iPad. “Go text somebody.”

“Daddy is a Scroo-ooge, Daddy is a Scroo-ooge,” they sang, linking arms and skipping upstairs. Mark sighed loudly.

“iPads are not nearly as satisfying as newspapers because you can’t rustle them to show your annoyance,” he said to Evelyn.

“Hmm,” she said, holding an untouched glass of wine and looking at the reflection of the Christmas tree in the window. Tomorrow was Christmas Eve, their family’s traditional celebration day. Mark was an EMT supervisor and had volunteered to work on Christmas Day for their entire twenty-seven year marriage, because that guaranteed him Christmas Eve off. It was the best possible scenario, given his line of work, but some years Evelyn found it hard. It had never bothered the girls, but when they had been small, Christmas Day was often the worst day of the year for her. This year, everything was prepared; the girls had done most of the work. Even so, a cloud of dread hovered over Evelyn, and she wished it was any other time of year. The thought of faking cheer made her want to lie down on the floor and never get up.

“Mom wants to confirm that we’re going to her place on Boxing Day,” said Mark.

“Of course we are. We do every year. I thought I had confirmed with her already last week,” said Evelyn, snappier than she had intended.

“She’s just making sure,” said Mark, frowning. “What’s with you tonight?”

“Nothing,” she said, finally sipping her wine.

“Come on, Ev. You’ve never been like that.”

“Like what?”

“Expecting me to guess what’s wrong with you. Come on, talk.”

“I…” She looked over at him, this man who had proven time and again that he would climb mountains for her. Their near-divorce had been all her fault, she knew, no matter how much the counsellor and Mark himself had said otherwise. She was the one who had retreated, stopped reaching out, let herself drift away from closeness. Mark was saving lives every day, dealing with bullet wounds and car crashes and brain injuries. How was he supposed to understand the ice shards in Evelyn’s heart that even she hadn’t noticed for years?

Mark was still waiting for her to speak. She saw him shift position, glance down at his iPad, twist his wedding ring. Signs of impatience. She tried to form a sentence that would explain how she felt, but the words evaporated when she tried to hold them.

“I’m sorry. I can’t right now. It’s not… I’m just tired.”

His face fell momentarily, then he transformed it into sympathy. “It’s been a rough year.”

She nodded.

“Let’s go out tonight,” he suggested, trying to bridge the gulf. “See a movie, go for coffee. Take a little break from Christmas.”

She wanted nothing more than to crawl into bed, but she said “Sure, that sounds nice.”

Mark smiled, relieved, and turned back to his electronic newspaper. Evelyn drank her wine and commanded herself to do better.

 

iii.

 

It began to snow while Evelyn was putting the traditional Christmas Eve meatballs on the table. Her first thought was The girls will love this. It was the first thing all day to shake her out of her melancholy, and she was grateful. She lit the four advent candles on the table, then the tea lights on the plate rail around the room so that the dining room was filled with a dim, warm glow. She called the family to the table, and as they each entered, the warmth filled their faces. She pointed silently to the window, the curtains left open, and her daughters’ faces lit with joy. She was reminded of their early years, when snowflakes and Christmas and their mother were magical to them. Again, she was grateful.

They all ate quietly, transfixed by the mood. The snowflakes were falling thick and fast, the fluffy kind that piled up quickly, and by the time they were finished, the back yard was tucked right in.

Evelyn watched her daughters get up and clear the table, rinse the plates, load the dishwasher. She remembered all the times she’d reminded, bribed, cajoled, and fought with them over doing the most basic of tasks, and appreciated how far things had come.

“You coming, Mom?” Lotta called from the living room. Evelyn shook herself. She was alone in the candlelight. She got up and joined her family, feeling as though she was two people in one body. One saw the way her daughters and husband were alive, vibrant, filled with love and happiness. But the other part of her wasn’t able to shake the physical ache in her chest, the jolts of pain when she remembered the too-fresh-to-be-trusted peace with Mark, the never-shifting dread that something else was bound to happen.

It was only a couple of hours until they would go to church, to hear the Christmas story and light the candles and sing Silent Night. Every other year, this had been Evelyn’s favourite part. It centred her, filled her with peace, reminded her of her tiny place in the universe. She had been holding on to hope that this was what she needed to restore her equilibrium, but as the minutes ticked past, the gloom rose until it choked her.

She could tell that Mark, Sally, and Lotta were concerned. She knew they wanted to fix everything for her, to bring her into their joy. She wanted it too.

She excused herself and went upstairs to her room. They would have a whispered conversation about what to do, she was sure. She allowed herself to cry, briefly, muffling her sobs with a hand towel and splashing water on her face to make herself stop. Her phone buzzed in her pocket.

I wasn’t going to say anything, but I’m really not doing well tonight. I don’t know what I’m asking for, but I think I’m asking for help.

Oh, Crystal. Sadness enshrouded her, her heart cracked. She knew, she had been to counselling, she knew that her own feelings were valid, that she was allowed to feel sad this Christmas, that the things that had happened in her life were hard things. But Crystal, losing her mother after her that jerk, that asshole, that dickhead left her for their daughter’s friend, and then her daughter blamed her for it, and cut her off, and now she had to live alone in an apartment, Crystal who was the bravest, most courageous person Evelyn had ever known, Crystal who came to help her when Mark left her overnight, when Lotta and Sally had drenched the house in icy silence, who sent flowers just because, Crystal was asking for help.

Evelyn stood up. She looked at herself in the mirror and saw an ordinary middle-aged mom, a financial advisor, doing her best but never quite good enough. She saw lines of joy and pain. She saw the residue of her tears. She saw a set to her shoulders and jaw that had been earned, chosen, and fought for.

She went downstairs. Sally, Lotta, and Mark sat up quickly and guiltily.

“I’m not coming to church,” she said, and felt the relief in her body as she said it. “Crystal texted me, so I’m going to her place. I’ll be back before you have to go to work, Mark, but don’t wait up.”

They nodded at her, and Lotta dashed into the kitchen. She came out just as Evelyn was heading out the door and handed her a grocery bag filled with leftovers from their Christmas party – cheese, crackers, chocolate, and wine. Evelyn embraced her trying to communicate with her body what she could not with her words, did the same with Sally and Mark, and left.

The world was muffled and quiet apart from someone a few streets over trying to get their car unstuck. Evelyn swept the snow off the van and drove to Crystal’s at a snail’s pace. She buzzed herself in.

Crystal opened the door, heartbreak etched into her face. “I was going to try to keep busy,” she said, her voice choking and hoarse, “but it turned out to be impossible. I just miss them all so much, and I can’t stop…”

Evelyn steered her to the couch, and together they sat, weeping into the dark.

 

Mary Walks

On each of the four Sundays before Christmas, the advent season, Widdershire will be posting four reflections from the point of view of Mary, the Mother of Jesus.

click image for source
click image for source

Mary walks. One foot in front of another, steady and slow.

The pace of her feet and the pace of a donkey are the only speeds she has ever traveled; she has seen horses thunder past, but she has never ridden at the pace of the wind.

Walking slows her racing thoughts and calms the blood pounding in her ears. Too many thoughts of things past and things to come seem to untether her from the present and cause her to drift through time, unable to hold onto the current moment. The steady pace of her feet brings her back to where she is, living in ordinary time, unraveling her days without Joseph, without Jesus, and without her angel.

It feels going to be doing something, to be moving.

The path begins to incline, and Mary walks uphill, towards the tree at the top. This hill and this tree are special for her; she makes the hike to the top at dawn every year close to Jesus’ birthday. It feels as though the movement upwards through space also moves her into a different time. Certainly the time she spends up here has that magical fast-yet-slow quality that she associates with God’s time.

Many times she needs to stop and rest, and she wonders for how many more years she can continue her tradition. But each time she stops, she notices something new. This time, she watches the town below her stir and awaken. Next time, it’s a pair of birds dancing in the wind. Then it is simply the pattern of the pebbles at her feet, and how the blades of grass grow around them.

It has taken her longer than usual, but she is not too late. She pauses to catch her breath, then settles into her usual place. She looks up, and sees the sight she has come for. Every year at this time, from this spot, she can see her Jesus’s star, shining on the horizon. Waiting, longing, remembering, and walking all come together in this place. She is Mary, the mother of Jesus, and she knows God’s time.

Originally published on tallisfabulous.com

Mary Remembers

On each of the four Sundays before Christmas, the advent season, Widdershire will be posting four reflections from the point of view of Mary, the Mother of Jesus.

click image for source
click image for source

Mary remembers.

She remembers the angel, the radiance, the spirit of the Lord coming upon her. She remembers the shining moment when she was given the gift of radiant joy, of the peace of God, of a glimpse from God’s perspective. She remembers knowing that she was a part of the Lord’s work in history, bringing forth a mighty transformation.

She remembers the moment when everything fell away and she was outside of ordinary time and space with the glorious being of light, sent directly from the Lord to give her the message that she was blessed. It was awesome and awe-filled and she had been so afraid, and then the angel said “fear not,” and she found that she could move past fear into peace and acceptance of what the Lord was asking of her. She had seen in an instant that it was no small thing she was agreeing to. She knew that she was being asked, not demanded or coerced.

She remembers the birth, her first birth. The birth that transformed her into a mother. She was again outside of normal time, the seconds stretching into hours but the hours passing in a moment. She remembers, after it was over, feeling an amazing rush of joy and pride in bringing this baby, her baby, the Lord’s baby into the world.

Both of those moments define her. They are the times that she felt the most whole, the most complete. To her, they exist in God’s time.

She looks up to see fingers of dawn tickling the edges of the world. Going back in time through memory has restored her to hope.

Originally published on tallisfabulous.com

Mary Longs

On each of the four Sundays before Christmas, the advent season, Widdershire will be posting four reflections from the point of view of Mary, the Mother of Jesus.

persian mary and jesus

Mary comes in soaked, cold, and exhausted.

She wants things to be made right, because they are so wrong. It feels wrong to be alive, and alone, with no sense of when that will change. She doesn’t understand how she is supposed to keep on living day after day. She doesn’t understand God’s time, how everything can be transformed in an instant and yet continue along in ordinary time.
She has been ruined for ordinary time.

Jesus understood how to marry God’s time and ordinary time, how to work in this world but keep a connection to God’s sacred time. But Jesus is gone, whisked back into that sacred time. He said he would return, but she has been waiting for a long time. She longs for the wait to end.

Stop this, she tells herself. You have been down this path before. It’s the path into despair and bitterness, and just because Mary means bitter does not mean that you must become bitter.

But the longing, longing for Jesus, for the angel, for understanding, for the end of hurt and confusion and doubt and so much tiredness, is overwhelming. More than anything, she wants to see the big picture like she did once before, when she knew that the Lord’s mercy lasts from generation to generation. She longs for that mercy.

The words burst out. Lord, you came into this world and promised to turn it around. You showed me that there is no one too insignificant or overlooked or unimportant to be a part of your plan. You embodied love. You transformed me entirely, body, mind, and spirit, and now I don’t know what to do! I have lost so much and in this long silence, I feel that I have lost you too. Show me that I am wrong, Lord.

Mary pours out the deepest desires of her heart until the rain on her face made salty by her tears has dried, and the storm in her heart has settled once more. She can carry on in ordinary time for now.

Originally published on tallisfabulous.com.

Mary Waits

On each of the four Sundays before Christmas, the advent season, Widdershire will be posting four reflections from the point of view of Mary, the Mother of Jesus.

black-mary
click for image source

Mary waits.

Her life has been long, and full, and difficult. To be chosen by God to bear the saviour of the nations is to be shaken, tossed, filled to overflowing and wrung out into nothing, over and over again.

She misses her son, and her husband.

She waits, stuck in ordinary time, each minute moving slowly. She has seen bits and pieces of the story from God’s time – the angel’s visit, her son’s miracles and transformations, the way everything she knew and understood about life and death, God and humans, sin and redemption turned upside down and rewritten.

Mostly, she sees the story in human time, slow and confusing and full of mistakes.

It should be time to sweep everything away and bring in the new kingdom that her son started. It’s been years since he left, and he said he would return soon. His birthday is coming up, and she always feels the pull of his message more strongly at this time of year. Love, he said. Love is the foundation of all things. Is love the foundation of waiting? Where is love in this painful wait, filled with the desire to be made whole?

There are shining, glorious moments when she feels to her core the truth that she is blessed, she was the vehicle through whom the Lord burst into creation and rewrote life, death, and time forever. She is reinvigorated to continue waiting for the fruition of her son’s work across the world. She feels once more the transcendent peace that allowed her to hear herself say “let it be with me according to your word” during the angel’s timeless visit.

There are other moments when the pain of loss and loneliness overwhelm her and she weeps. The waiting is interminable at those times.

Lord, she cries, the days are dark and long. Please, please tell me why I am waiting. Please give me the courage to wait one more day. Please give me the strength to wait for your return.

Mary walks out to share her son’s message of love yet one more time.

Originally published on tallisfabulous.com

The Witch in the Woods

The rain lashed against the windows. Inside the house, a man writhed, gasping and soaked with sweat. In the hall downstairs, two women paced. One seemed more agitated, often pausing often at the foot of the staircase to listen until she heard the sound of a man in pain, then resuming her tread. The other, younger, sat in a chair deep in thought.

The doctor descended the stairs. “Well, I don’t know what more I can do for him. There is a witch in the heart of the woods who may have something that can help, but medicine has no power here.”

“Oh Doctor, you can’t be serious!” exclaimed the older woman. “The witch, if she even exists, is an abomination.”

The younger woman stood up abruptly, a new light in her eyes. “I will go to this witch.”

“Willa, are you sure? Think of the danger, and the weather!”

Willa nodded. “For my angel, I shall spare nothing.”

“May God protect you, and save my son until your return.” She collapsed into the chair Willa had vacated, seeming to swoon. The doctor bent over her in a minute, and Willa turned for the door to hide her contempt.

The stable boy saddled the fastest of Willa’s husband’s horses. “Let us see about this witch,” she said to herself as she stepped out into the tempestuous night.

She and her horse were soaked to the skin in minutes. The horse was anxious; it was difficult for Willa to keep her seat. It was an eternity before she found the first sign on the path to the witch’s dwelling. An empty cage hung from a dead tree, a desiccated form lying in it. Willa shuddered.

The second sign was a savage thornbush growing directly across the path. The horse was upon it so quickly that it could not stop; it leapt over it and nearly cleared it, but screamed as the thorns pierced its tender belly. When they landed, the horse had the bit in its teeth and Willa had no control. They plunged through the forest headlong, terrified, directionless. Suddenly the spectre of a huge snake reared up in front of them, and Willa was flying through the air.

She was dazed for a moment. When she looked up, she could see a trail of broken branches but no horse.

“Damn!” Willa picked herself up to continue on foot. She was still in a desperate hurry, but there was no other way. At least the rain was slowing somewhat.

Although that wasn’t quite accurate. Willa could hear the sound of the storm raging still, rain sleeting down, lightning casting the trees into spiky relief and thunder crashing violently. But around her was a gentle spring shower. It was warmer, too, and her soaking cloak and riding pants were beginning to steam.

She picked her way along the path. It was no longer a track through the brush, but an old stone road. She noticed ancient stone signposts now and again, and after a while they had lamps upon them. Strange lamps, not flames but steady, pale beacons. The stone road became a gravel drive, and Willa’s boots crunched along it until she came to what must be the witch’s hut.

It was like no hut she’d ever seen before. It had clear panels of glass set in the walls like no windows Willa had seen before. It was neither stone nor brick, but clad with long, pink strips. There was another of the unflickering light above the front door, which was elevated from the ground. Willa climbed the steps, marvelling at the construction of the house She knocked on the door.

A woman opened the door. She was looking at a small, oblong object in her hand that glowed blue. It was undoubtedly magic, and Willa’s doubts evaporated. She was in the right place.

The woman looked up and blinked at Willa. The witch  was dressed in odd clothing, a childish tunic that hid her shape only to her knees, where tight black breeches showed every curve. Willa was entranced for a minute, then pulled her gaze back up to the woman’s face. She wore windows over her eyes and her hair was piled on her head.

“How on earth did you find me?” she asked.

Willa’s mind raced to find the right words. “I… I was sent here for help. My husband…”

“Oh no, not again.” The witch, if she was indeed a witch, rolled her eyes as though this wasn’t the first time.

Willa was nonplussed.

“Who sent you?”

“The doctor. My husband is very sick, and…”

“Hmm. Not a priest, or a creepy old woman who lives in the woods?”

“You are the creepy old woman who lives in the woods. Except… you’re not very old.”

“No but seriously I need to know how you got here. You look Edwardian or something. And no, I am not an old crone.”

“In this time of crisis, the doctor sent me to find the witch in the woods, but the storm…”

“Oh, of course there was a storm. Alright, stay there for a minute. I’m afraid I can’t invite you in. Can you still see your forest? And is it still stormy?”

Willa looked back the way she’d come. It was difficult to see clearly, but the forest did seem to be there, still gripped in the tempest.

“Yes.”

“Good. So what’s wrong with your husband?”

“He can’t breathe. It started with a bit of blue around his lips, and now he’s gasping. There’s a pox on his skin and…”

“Stay here.”

The witch walked away, leaving the door open. Willa could see all manner of strange things in the house, and leaned forward to see them better. There were more of the flameless lamps, and thin ropes connected to the walls. It seemed plain, lacking tapestries and rugs, yet cleaner than any dwelling Willa had seen.

“You have to stay outside!” the witch called. Willa jumped back.

Soon enough, the witch came back with two tubes. “Here. You pull off this cap and jam it into his thigh, like this. This is a spare, in case it happens again, but figure out if he was stung by a wasp or ate a peanut or something and then never let it happen again because it’ll kill him. I’m not even sure you’ll make it back it time. You’re lucky I have these. Now run, and I hope it’s not too late.”

Willa ran. There was no snake, no thorn fence, and no cage. The track was almost impossible to see in the dark.

Dawn was breaking before she burst out of the forest. The rain had stopped but the trees were still dripping, and the light of early dawn lit up a fog that covered the ground. Willa staggered towards the manor and her husband, then paused. She thought for several minutes. Then she turned and marched back into the forest. This was her chance at freedom, and she was damned if she was going to let it pass her by.

Picked Last

Twenty five in a line up. I have a feeling, deep in my belly that this time we are going to use the parachute. Slowly, we march and the teacher is at the front. The doors open and there is no parachute. Just big empty space. I stare down at my feet, following the black lines on the floor. One foot in front of the other. Tightrope walker. The black line touches a green line and a red line. Green or red? Red is best. We read a book like that this morning. Read red. Red read. Read is best. Better than gym. The words turn themselves over in my head. Head read red. I step onto the red line and follow it, head down.

 

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