…and in the morning, I sit with the light on my face, my mouth holding only a few words, old words, a well-worn prayer:

“…please, don’t forget about me…”

and how many women have prayed these words, how many women have allowed themselves to yield to the ache of this prayer

for husbands to stay, or change, leave, or arrive
for children to stay, or change, or fly with their own wings
for babies to arrive from the secret room in the other world where they have patiently been waiting for the right time
for safe births
for gentle, peaceful deaths
for bodies that need healing
for souls that need freedom
for broken hearts
for the emptiness that sometimes finds its way into a body, into a heart, into a grocery cupboard, into a bank account, into the bellies of their babies
for protection and safety from the wars thrust upon them
for roots and belonging
for wings and for the leaving
for peace, and a gentle journey home
for tables and warm kitchens to belong to
for life, when a faith is lost
for faith, when a life is lost
for forgiveness and a hundred second chances

it is standing before the God-that-sees-me, with all of this inside my mouth
it is old and it is older
it is what it is

and I am Hannah, and Hagar, and Esther, and Eve
and I am Elizabeth, and Ruth, and Naomi, and the grieving wife of Job, and I am the woman at the well, and Magdalene washing the feet of God, and I am the woman struggling to reach the hem of Your robe, the certain miracle, the holy antidote

how there are women everywhere, always and right now, standing in front of a window, their life a small, fierce choice in need of grace, and love, and kindness, the fire in need of water, all the little deaths waiting to be told they are alive

and always, there is God, arms open wide, feet dirty, hungry and thirsty, bruised and bleeding

just waiting to be asked.

© Liezel Graham 2023

{from my journal this morning… perhaps you need this too}

liezel