and so, we begin
At the dawn of day, while yet the dark of dying night redacts our view, I huddle in the chair by a flickering fire, coffee cup warm on my fingers. The one hand cradling, the other cupped to receive, my heart turns to prayer. I worship; I confess; I give thanks; I ask, withholding nothing.
Suddenly, I feel her, Riley waiting, her presence entirely fixed on me. Lost in conversation, I had missed the usual signs–the ding of wakefulness coming from her room, the sounds of doors creaking open and shut, the murmur of her self-talk. But right now, summoned from deeper prayer, I feel her, the significance of her spirit, the careful discipline with which she waits.
I turn my head toward her, opening my eyes slowly, knowing Riley will wait just like this, not impatiently, but with peaceful stillness, all time and responsibility forgotten, until we receive each other. Catching my gaze, she laughs, an easy release. I could reach out and touch the line of her pillow still marking the soft, rosy pinnacle of her cheek, but instead, I put my coffee on the table and stand, opening my arms, knowing her pajamas will feel warm against my skin. I smooth the soft cotton, running my hands over her shoulder blades and along the curve of her back. Riley still tries to bend far enough to rest her ear just over my heart, but she’s taller than I am, and the angle is awkward. I wrap my arms around and squeeze, my body saying, okay, time to begin, and she squeezes tighter, not yet, deliberately pressing her face into my shirt.
“It just feels so good to hug you,” she says, acknowledging all this out loud, and I smile, tracing the lines of her again with my hands, realizing that this, this moment for love, is her beginning. She already knows something it took me years to understand, that all good doing begins with good being, her with me, us with God.
Finally–several pregnant minutes past my first silent witness to the press of time, Riley releases me, stepping back to anoint my face with kisses, always my forehead first–she pushes back my hair with her hand, then each cheek, and then, at last, my lips. It feels like a holy thing, this way her love shapes the cross over my face. Together, we make up a priesthood living sacrifice. Love will always be the greatest gift remaining.
“Thank you,” I say, letting my grin stretch.
“Oh anytime, Mom Jones,” she says, already moving over to the couch, where Kevin sits absorbed, the Bible open on his lap. She waits, attention fixed quietly on her dad, hands crossed in front at the wrists. Slowly Kevin unfolds, laying aside Bible and pen, having anticipated his own turn.
“I didn’t get to hug you fully before you left yesterday,” Riley says, slipping into Kevin’s arms, resting her ear, as she likes to do, over the beat of her father’s heart. I can’t help thinking about how she fits perfectly there, better than any other place.
“Mmm,” Kevin says, assenting, and I imagine the feel of his chest trembling beneath her ear.
“That’s why I really need to hug you today,” she says, by way of unnecessary explanation, though we all know that one day’s manna spoils before the next day’s hunger.
I sit back down, drawing a blanket back up over my legs, my eyes unmoving, for a moment, from the two of them. And then, as Riley begins to kiss Kevin’s face, I open my arms again to that holy love, and carefully press my ear over my own father’s heart.
