We Three

We three are fixed together by a supernatural love. We are bound so irreversibly we may never be able to trace the start of the thread. We are the centre of the whirlpool, the value of something priceless. We three are made to last till the day after forever.

We three know pain; being neither infallible nor untouchable, we have known battles so brutal it’s a small wonder laughter is still a familiar sound to the ear.

image  Our souls have been in combat for so long that we can hardly believe life can be nothing but bliss. Seven years of famine have come and gone and made room for more sorrow and plaque yet we three stand brazen with light eternal. We believe in victory, yes sir we believe in our love.

We three are the tall glass of cold water in the bowels of a drought; they gawk at us perplexed for we are an Offaly sight to the eye that understands very little. And then they come tumbling face-down before us, tripped by the mirage of a seemingly good, sheltered life.

We know good, we know sheltered, we know everyone comes to their day of reckoning one way or another. And once the come to close view of that sight, of us- still in the presence of our demise, resolute in the promise of a grand destiny, they yield to the possibility imageof a humbling God. They begin to see the monument we three are, the tribute to pain and hope we have reluctantly and thankfully come to be.

We three are beaten; we three are unbeatable. We three on our knees; we three lifted in prayer. We three know the taste of blood in the mouth as blows come thundering onto the jaw. We three have knuckles made of gold, made to mince our enemy into oblivion. We are not spent- we’re taking prisoners. See us rise!

I Hate It

Now, the following thoughts are not to be taken as an account of my life. Some of the feelings I express here are mine and real; a great deal of what I’ve written here was inspired by those feelings. That said, thank you for reading.

alone

I Hate It.

I hate it when after a stormy night the sun wakes up brighter and more cheerful, adamant to annoy me with its brilliance and jauntiness. I hate it because I am still feeling blue, I couldn’t sleep a wink and my eyes are awfully puffed up from bursting into tears every hour of the night.

I hate it when I see you smiling very dearly and sincerely, eyes beaming with indifference as if you are mimicking that after-the-storm sun that I hate so much. You are smiling because you are genuinely happy, happy that you got me where you wanted me, glad to still have your life intact.

While mine falls apart with each passing moment, you beam on like the ray of Hope others have come to believe you to be. Man of the people, kissing on babies and helping old folk cross the road. Sharing your revolutionary message of hope with thousands who will hear it. I wonder how many know the words you use in your television interviews and on social media are mine. Verbatim.

I hate the grey suit you wore in the publicity picture you took for the press. You once told me your ex had liked to pick grey suits for you, even though she knew you hate grey. You said grey made you feel old, habitual and uninteresting and that you wanted everyone to know, just as I did, that you were anything but. You then kissed me with such emotion it took my breath away, told me no one knew or understood you the way I did. I hate that suit more than you ever did. Seeing you in it today makes me wonder who the heck is picking your suits now.

I hate that you haven’t had the decency to dump me. Mr On-Your-Honour has failed to honour a commitment he never meant to make. You avoid my calls and return my request for    courtesy with deafening silence. Tell me, what kind of man decides who exists and who is invisible? I cannot understand any of it and I hate it.

Song of Hope, Song for Us.

My mother used to hum and sing all the time. Wherever she was in the house, regardless what we would be going through or, more likely, be in dire need of, there’d be a song playing soundtrack to the scene of our lives. For years it annoyed me, partly because I myself was an unhappy person, largely because I didn’t understand it. It was something I never forgot though, something that would come to mean so much more to me in latter years.

I remember my first non-sensical humming outburst; we had been going for weeks without much food. Our bills were coming apart at the seams and there was no hope of some kind of reprieve in sight. In the midst of the proverbial scale of misfortune tilting southward, they cut off our water and left behind a little blue note.

I remember I picked up that little blue note from the gate and began my slow, painful walk back inside the house. A million thoughts raced around like my head was open season at Monaco and all I could sum up from the chaos in my head was that I had run out of options. My human mind had run out of ways to save the situation and my family.

My daughter was back from school already on that day; dinner was expected at 7 and I knew there would be clearing up and dish washing to be done afterwards. A bedtime story would need to be read sometime after 7.30. Someone would need to make sure all the doors and windows are bolted before the last light was switched off. The universe would get on with be business of being, thus rendering my self pity, my despair, null and void.

I looked around the house, my gaze falling on every one of the items still intact by some Grace and felt each possession speak back to me. They seemed to be recalling events that had occurred in our life together, the tea cups telling stories of so-and-so who wouldn’t let up on the milk or sugar, the framed photos chattering on about the moments that had bore them into existence. All of them seemed to have so much to say about our lives, yet none could tell me what to do to save us from sinking.

With a certainty I’d never experienced before, I began to hum. I hummed to silence the cluelessness filling the spaces in my heart, hummed to numb the pangs of loneliness and solitude I felt wrestling with our troubled life. There was so much to do and not much I could do, so I hummed. I belted out a melody so happy it made my belly sore to stop humming. It calmed me and crept beneath my heart, lay there and began to warm up the places above and beneath that sacred space.

That song that my mother sang in her hour of need may have not solved our problems, paid our bills or put food on our dinner table. Yet when I sang just as she had in my hour of need, I knew what she knew: that song was a war cry. That song was my rage against the dying machine: my infallible, vulnerable mind. That song was the best defense against a crumbling life.

So here’s my solemn word: as long as I live and breath, always and forever in my hour of need, I will let my nonsensical humming be heard by all who need hope. I will sing for me, for faith, for strength and even for you.image