the road runs long and white to the edge of the world where the house sits empty.
we walk, scarves knit around faces, sky frosted glass. our words make puffs of cloud.
she, telling me about the people who don’t want to let it happen.
the fields are iced grass. the winged bird dips. the roof of the empty house slants cold. the barns heave and silence is the mouth that swallows.
i don’t want to hear it. i don’t want to hear of people being afraid to let the women and children in.
this house is going to be sparrow’s hope. used to shelter women running from slamming fists and angry voices. women holding babe to breast, running, running, down road and across plain into vastness, and this house calling, home.
and the churches here are quilting covers and there are tables and chairs and toys and beds and clothes, so many clothes, donated in piles, and we want to give, we do, but sometimes we just don’t know how. and so, we shake.
the road creaks, an old wooden board. trent’s mom tells me of someone not wanting to build the road across, now that the house is going to be filled with wounded. not because of the wounded, but because of what they imply, and because of what might follow.
but we are all wounded and sin tracks us until we step inside the house of God.
and everyone needs a safe place.
the sun blinks evening and we’re turning back. the house hides by the cloud that led the israelites by day and the fire that burned by night.
he, our ever shelter. he, our cradled safe place. let it be.
broken writers, artists, believers… i hope you find a safe place here. spill crumbs below… in a communion of the imperfect.
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*original of “Doorway of Hope” sold; prints available here*