This, this, this

Palm Sunday.

I sit in my small basement study. Rain drops cover the screen across the window. I am warm, I have a warm house. It’s cozy here in my little room, a room of my own. I am grateful.

My husband opens the door at the top of the stairs and calls my name. A few minutes later, my husband opens the door at the top of the stairs and calls my name. He is checking on me. He wants to know I’m here, I’m safe, he’s safe.

“There’s a kind of hush, all over the world…”

There is a kind of hush this morning, Sunday. Today, it’s an eerie hush. In the hush, I check my emails, and I see messages of love from family, from friends. Although I am alone here in this small space, I am not alone. I am surrounded by a cloud of witnesses, the ancestors, I can hear them, crying softly, allowing me to hear their grief for me as I have grief for them.

And this is a blessed time, filled with many things. Like a jar of buttons, shaped and colored, two holes, four holes, all different, this time is filled with many things. “There is a time for every purpose under heaven.” Truly, there is. The time is filled with reading. I water my plants, my companions. Every day, in my mind, I awake with a song, and I hum the tune throughout the day. We eat our simple meals together. We read a few lines of the Psalms, of a poem, of someone who lived long ago who knew this time, as well. From time to time, there is anger, there is fear, and there is laughter, also.

“There is a time for every purpose under heaven.”

I can sit with that thought. I can sit. I can breath. I can be fearful. I can be joyful. I can be grateful. I can be whole.

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