or I can’t walk
Early morning quiet and steam dances and curls over the cup, and I sit listening. The many sounds of silence include the voice of God, and His Word always changes things. I scribble the date in my journal and begin to write, glancing back to the Bible still open in my lap. The cover and the pages deceive; it’s no ordinary book. The Word lives; sharper than a sword, the Word judges the thoughts and attitudes of the heart (Hebrews 4:12); the Word is Christ (John 1:1). The Bible is just where He’s written down. So now, I write down our conversation, because His Word must be re-membered; He takes form; He moves now by moving us.
I feel Mom there before I see her. She stands in the doorway, her white hair soft about her face, her skin warm and worn crinkly. She’s just awake–or maybe she’s hardly slept. I can still see sleep hanging about her rich brown eyes. She lifts her hand. “Morning,” she says, and I stand up and walk toward her, wrapping my arms around her shoulders, pausing to drop a kiss on her cheek. We linger a moment, saying much without saying a word, and then she says, “I’m going to go do my exercises; I have to do those or I can’t walk.”
She’s not kidding; it’s the truth. Every day without fail, she finds a spot on the floor, stretches her now small and aged frame through a series of warm-ups. And she’s right; if she doesn’t do this, her legs become stiff and uncooperative. So she makes the time first thing; it’s part of waking up; it must be.
I turn, gesturing back to the journal and the Bible on my desk, the pen I dropped on top when I got up to hug her. “Me too,” I say, grinning wide. I know she’ll understand because she taught me. “Gotta do my exercises, or I just can’t walk.” It’s the best gift she gave me, the best thing I’ll ever give my children, this Lamp that lights my path (Psalm 119:105) and the sure knowledge of how desperately I need Him.
She smiles, lays a mama hand affectionately against my cheek, says simply, “Yes.” That wide word —yes, that smile that reaches all the way to her morning eyes, it acknowledges God; it wholeheartedly trusts.
