Leaves fly, are set assail by the changing of the season. They fall, are gathered and burned. Their colors let them appear to be already set aflame by sun through them passing. They are gathered by neighbors while I gather layettes, scattered on the ground of my bedroom from washing, over an impossibly large belly. Every move I make is hindered by my daughters, sweet daughters growing in my womb. Lord call them your daughters as you have so named me. But is that really your name for me great God? Ton petit fille, your little girl? Lately I wonder, lacking confidence. This little girl has been wandering down remote roads of untruth where dust of lies fly and settle on my skin and clothes. Slanderers ride swift with smiles and splash mud on my face. Ton petite fille looks now like a little orphan, and what I see in my reflection I believe. “Orphan keep wandering, for you have no home” the evil ones whisper. Your father is dead and he believed a lie. He is nothing but dust in a vessel now. There is no great rest on the other shore, there is no hope for your hurting heart, there is no one standing guard over your children, no one orchestrating your daughters birth. They will cut you open no different than a piece of meat on a table and what will be, will be, chance, random chaos, no design, no designer, no creator of all things, no helper or truth. I become a fatalist so easily. So easily an atheist am I made with tricks and tongues that sling words that are simply innocent with ignorance, but feel calculated and rehearsed for the purpose of my demise. Wounds re-opened leave me scampering for answers. Lies are so easily found in mirrors, in pain, in the words of an enemy ten years past, where truth stands still where it has always been, in scripture, in prayer in kind words of encouraging friends. Truth waits above to be gazed on while Lies are a jester so effortlessly dancing about the filthy floor, so easily given focus and attention to. It is cheap trickery that I believe these lies and am captivated by them, when wouldn’t my eyes rather rest on truth, on the created things of beauty? I stare at the jester while angels sing over head in the falling leaves. I stare at my muddy dress and dusty hands when leaves of stained glass are set assail and create such beauty, when stars align and miracles are made, when spider webs drape my back deck, threads of crystal in perfect geometric form flashing in the morning sun, when a single cell in my body has now become two precious babies, with hearts and brains and eyes that will see and know their mother, will recognize my voice and my smell when they are born. These beauties break down walls. Random chance becomes ransomed and planned. Nothing can be explained by action of accident, result of disorder. I am a daughter of the most high King, my children are watched over by Holy Spirit who moves and keeps safe the hearts of heaven. And that vessel filled with ashes on my mothers shelf is no father of mine, but only what remains of the shell that once housed his eternal soul, a soul that I believe is now in the very presence of God, petitioning the King directly for the safe birthing of my babies and for the sanctification of their hearts and mine. I will see that soul again one day.
It is not knowledge alone that dispels lies but also beauty, for knowledge has taken true form in experience; experience of many things but one thing being beauty, beauty, in sight and smell and sound and touch. My daughters will bring truth on their soft skin and eye lashes, their mouths will sing praises with their first breath of air and their heads will bare a sweet aroma named “baby smell” that will remind us of El Roi, the God who sees, who has blessed us with experience in mourning and has now blessed us with new life, new faith and joy. Sweet Fall you are welcome to come with all that you bring; bring glories, bring truth, bring birth, bring beauty.
