Hope For Those Who Are Watching
Tuesday, December 17
Morning Prayers in Winter
A lonely new mother of a baby girl,
she lives in a two hundred-year-old log cabin
in the wilds of Owen County KY,
down a gravel road, down another gravel road,
across a creek, and up a hill.
This winter morning as usual she treks down to
the laid-limestone rock well,
dropping down a galvanized bucket until she feels
the weight of the water filling it, then
pulling it up, hand over hand,
while watching the chickadees, purple finches, and cardinals
chasing each other away from the feeder
as the juncos are cleaning up the mess on the ground.
She carries more buckets inside,
splashing cold water on her boots,
filling white enameled wash pans,
watching until she hears them
groaning with heat on the woodstove.
Like her Grandma before her,
she is scrubbing yesterday’s diapers on the same
glass-ribbed washboard,
creating a rhythm,
humming a carol softly along.
The swishing, the wringing,
the rinsing, water dripping up to her elbows,
getting her rolled-up sleeves wet,
the fresh smell of soap and bleach,
watching the clean pile of wet white grow in the pan.
(So far, so good… baby still quiet,
not like the inconsolable colic-y cries of last night.)
Hanging them out on the line,
her fingers freezing even with gloves.
Stretch, snap, stretch, snap,
one row, two rows; with each snap
the long winter stretches on and on in her mind
like the ice-glazed clothesline.
Back inside, chugging down the cold tea left from breakfast,
she hears happy gurgling, baby playing in her crib.
As she lifts little one up, kissing her baby neck,
up under her soft cheeks,
she glances out the window watching them—
Rows of white prayer flags, flapping in the wind,
Jawanna Herd
But this I call to mind, and therefore I have hope: the steadfast love of the Lord never ceases, his mercies never come to an end; they are new every morning. Lamentations 3: 21-23
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