As the Israelites traveled through the desert wilderness, the presence of God was manifest in a cloud by day and a pillar of fire by night. Exodus 13:22
In the summer of 1982 God sat at a card table, poodles at her ankles, cocked cigarette in hand, setting her nine cards in vast array.
The summer of '82 was slow and hot and humid, and we traveled through the days card by card, pacing ourselves by trumpeted proclamations Let’s Make a Deal! Wheeeeeel ooofff Fortune! and the whispers of Luke and Laura.
When the news ended, when the last card played, when the air was thick and stale, and we were tired of each other, I trudged away, smelling of smoke, and entered my quiet house. If anyone was there, they knew I had been with God.
Every morning, I’d return, crossing the wasteland, my house to God’s, to sit before the altar of three channels and eat toast to the happy banter of others Good Morning, America.
The incense of tobacco, bright and fragrant, rose into the crisp morning air, air cleansed by the light of the moon.
Sometimes God thundered about daughters-in-law. Sometimes God quaked about the silent phone line, the boys who seldom called. Sometimes God wept for the sins of the family, and sometimes God spoke in a still small voice, It’s going to be ok, honey Oh baby, I’m so very sorry
An ember by night, the Cloud of Presence by day, In the wandering wilderness of that season, God Was.
Letting go is like Letting go of honey, or letting go of dirt under your fingernails after an afternoon in the garden
Letting go is like dropping a hot-handled skillet, the imprint bubbled into your palm.
Or it is like lingering. It is losing the scent from a lover’s pillow.
It is the slow melt.
It is marking each labored breath while feeling the planet’s rotation under your feet.
Letting go is like blowing a dandelion into the wind, a contrary wind, that whisks tiny tailed wisps up your nostrils under your eyelids into your ears.
Letting go is artless wretchedness. There’s no beauty in it: It is a roll in the mud and a stumble through the briars. But when you emerge, your dented grace and seedling peace will be enough.
Chali Davis 