I’ve got to write — I know this is part of the work for me — though I’m not sure where the writing will go.
I struggle to find my voice again after a few days away. Why is it hard to enter back in?
I repeat the early morning rituals of a woman finding her voice.
Before the house wakes, I do. Put on my blessed sweater. See the silhouettes of tall November trees against the early morning sky from the bathroom window. Enough light cast by the city that powder gray holds dark limbs, suspended.
I make coffee and lay on the couch under a blanket to receive God’s love, remember that it’s for me, and I breathe.
Peace infuses as I lie there on the couch among the red and green pillows while in the kitchen, ground beans seep their rich oils into piping water.
Infused by peace, my limbs warm, I breathe in and out.
For a few moments, I let go and receive life from this Breath of Heaven. Hear the voice of the One who reminds me who I am.
I walk down the steps to the basement, sit down and push keys, watch words form whole before my eyes. An everyday miracle.
Through the computer, Silent Night plays.
I hear my papa’s voice now and see his eyes welling tears — he who reluctantly sung most Christmas carols belting out Stille Nacht in full force vibrato. His favorite Christmas carol falling from his lips in Bavarian-accented German.
When he sung this song, my papa’s tender heart spilled with the notes. Like a mother enveloping her baby, like a Father’s love for His child.
This morning, voices fill me.
The voice of father, of mother, of traditions that move so quickly from costumes to leaves pressed in wax to full Thanksgiving tables to boughs and red berries and Advent candles and holy hymns, whether I’m ready or not.
This morning, the imperfect offering of my own voice lingers in the air. The yell of last evening reverberating through my corridors, then the humbled tones too, kneeling at a daughter’s bedside.
I’m sorry. Will you forgive me?
You are not too much.
I love how God made every intricate part of you.
You are my precious girl, and I love you with every fiber of my being.
My fibers love all her fibers. So as hurt lingers, and tears drop, I remind her who she is. Among these strings of old stories and old wounds, I speak the truest words I know. These strands of life woven like bright red thread through powder gray.
Sometimes the days soldier on, and I wonder if I have much to write about it, living this ordinary life under this ordinary roof.
Now, Little Drummer Boy beats its cadence to the tapping of these keys, and I feel the repetition of these days, these years.
Pa rum pum pum pum.
And the drum’s beat breaks through the star-lit night 2,000 years ago and speaks to my ordinary.
Show up to this daily life.
Receive the gifts.
Give them away.
Beat your drum.
Belt out those holy songs tender and loud.
Know you will hurt, but remember those words you purpose from your own mouth, your own fingers, to bring life.
Bring life, love with you, always with you — that scarlet thread rolled out right through the middle of ordinary days.