The King Always Returns

In these days of shadow and light,

evening dusk, sunshine bright,

in these days where glad tidings collide with messiness and brokenness inside,

in these days of reflection and deflection,  noticing the intersection of past, present,  and future pondered,

in these days of gazing at gathering dust along the top tier of the Roman shade,

and straightening the comforter edge of the made bed,

in these days of soul-searching and words stirring,

and maybe the darkness in the pages of The Return of the King seeps from the Ariel font a little too close,

frustration hovers in bones,

and answers seem found in avoidance,

we’re reminded on Ash Wednesday,  from dust we are formed, to dust we return,

and The Chosen plays on the screen while tears run and I feel the fringe between my fingers as I watch the woman in want, the desire to go unseen,  the desire for healing,

For more than a decade she’s carried this burden issuing from her body.

And hope, unbidden,  bursts onto the scene in quiet, steady sandals.

For, whence, does Hope unlooked for hail from?

Hope will never grow without the soil of struggle.

And Miss Beth’s reading in my ear about knots and pines and her BFF-big-brother as I face the thankless mundane of yet another mish-mash of mugs and forks and mixing bowls.

And there’s another woman who went in search of water and at the well found wishes fulfilled she didn’t even know she wanted.

Gratuitous hope has a way of showing up when least expected.

It keeps company with us without asking.

Without bossiness or shame. No intrusion or pointless conversation.

And it shows us a Hobbit who keeps right on speaking hope to his friend, Frodo, because he believes in him. And deeper, he believes in the hope of their undertaking,  much as they may wish it need not have happened in their time.

And Miss Beth’s reading about the baby bear chairs in her Sunday school class and buck teeth and a big sister who always has her back.

And that’s the thing with the knots in this life. They snag on darkness and despair and wear shades of frantic searching.  Trauma pulls them tighter, yet in the mix we find joy and smiles and gratitude,  and remarkably, hope.

Our souls drink deep and finger the fringe.

We share our struggles and our stories, not to stir up drama or seek attention,  but to link arms, to steady steps which falter, to offer a sip of needed water.

To breathe hope into our company, whether it be nine or nineteen or ninety, as we embark this perilous quest.

For the King always returns in the wake of hope.

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