Juxtaposition

A slightly labored breath escaped the tiny mouth of the newborn baby boy I cradled gently in the crevasse of my arms. “You’ll figure it out little buddy,” I thought as I realized how strange it must be to learn something like breathing. Weird and wonderful to think that 48 hours prior breathing wasn’t even on his radar. When his tiny wrinkled hand slipped around my finger and gripped it tightly, the progression of my thoughts went somewhere I wasn’t expecting. Time warped into a different hospital room with an equally wrinkled hand wrapped tightly around mine, all fingers inter woven.

His breaths were labored also but not because it was a new phenomenon.  No, as he reached his final cap, his allotted number so to speak each one became more exerted, deliberate, and full of intention. “You’ll figure it out grandpa,” I thought, as I realized how strange it must be for him to begin to fully know that time is short, finite here.

The juxtaposition is eerily similar for me. I remember tracing the lines of their faces with my eyes, taking in each feature, trying desperately to etch the gravity of the situation in my mind forever because moments like these don’t just happen every day. Feeling my heart swollen with emotion; immense adoration hidden in the warmest chamber of my heart.

Remembering now, I can’t help but wonder if their thoughts spun in the same direction. I can’t help but wonder that in the birth and death of the day, if we all desire little more than to grip on to the tangible love in front of us, to hold tightly to that which brings comfort and peace, to be cradled with affection, to breathe in and out. 

Promises in Pencil

I’ve never been a fan of using pencil. In fact, I pride myself as a fancy pen person. I love the feel of my Pilot G2 05 as the smooth gel ink glides effortlessly across the paper. In college I arrogantly took my Calculus and Physics exams in pen. I couldn’t stand the idea of the faint ghosting of frantic erasing all over my exams.  Sometimes now, I even bust out my quill pen and ink well to write in calligraphy. That act, dipping the iron tip and placing each stroke feels incredibly intentional; almost concrete, each word full of meaning. No room for error and no eraser for mistakes.

However, when I write in pencil it feels hesitant, uncommitted. Like when people I loved used to promise me things and I knew they didn’t mean it. I grew weary of their empty words; tired of their lies. I became adamantly opposed to saying I promise; calloused and bitter towards people who carelessly threw them around like a cheap imitation of sincerity.

Yet, I’ve been drawing promises in pencil for quite some time now. I pencil in my best guess and promptly smear it with the hopes that when I miss the mark, it is nearly illegible. I leave it in the sunlight knowing that the rays will bleach the graphite. I bargain and barter and make false claims signing my allegiance in pencil hoping that when it’s revisited, He will have forgotten and my faded signature will be unrecognizable.

I imagine that the One who sees infinitely more that I can grows just as weary of my penciled promises and hollow words as I once did. He knows when I beg and barter to do better if He would only______ that I’m just searching for a means to an end, trying to gain the upper hand. I can only claim ignorance for so long. Imitation will no longer do, for You, I cannot deceive. 

Birdcage Religion