these are the people that set my determination even deeper to swipe the paint beneath my eyes and grip the temple pillars with white-knuckled fingers.
since when is the sacred a fancy? and when did motherhood kill the Light?
have i missed something?
a wise woman once told me that the weight of her son on her back bore her often to her knees. and isn't this how it should be? where children pull on skirts and guide closer and closer to the Cross, because children are warriors too.
and i am ten weeks with this one, still silent save for the fluttering heartbeat beneath my skin.
but this child will not blind my eyes from seeing Light or colour or Heaven's kiss along the earth. i know that it will be hard, and perhaps tears will blur or exhaustion with draw me down to my knees, but i will not be made blind.
:: He promised that i would never be blind again ::
i feel like i have toes pressed against the dock with water lapping soft beneath, and the wind whispering brave through my hair.
maybe this dock is higher than i think, perhaps a ship's yardarm. and there is still this whisking, flowing water beneath my bare feet.
and i could dive, or i could stay on the edge and wonder always what would have happened if i let go and simply slipped from air to aquatic.
no, i know.
i'm diving. deeper than i've dared before. and i refuse to act as though i am unafraid, because i have shaking fingers. but i've put down roots of brave and i will let the still, small Voice whisper in the night.
for I have overcome the world.