It’s old. Ancient, even. The pavers are worn and the covering they used to bear has come off. The stone benches still stand, somehow, but they bear the burdens and emotions of thousands of years. The stone pillars around the edge have outlived the trees growing outside it, through a few generations. Those who enter in come with hope. They come with prayers and in faith. They come with tears and chaos. They come in anger and frustration. The one who meets them there is willing to meet them with whatever they come with.
I come in
quiet. I come at night, or in the middle of the day. I come to see him, anxious
for him to hold me up or to rest my head in his presence knowing he’ll watch
over me. I run to him, burying my head in his shoulders and in his chest. It’s
quiet here, peaceful, but never still. There’s a gentle wind in the trees, and
birds singing. My feet cool on the scarred marble floors. My hair is warmed by
the sunshine streaming in from above.
He holds
me in the chaos. He holds me in my pain. He sits beside me when I try to push
him away. He smiles when he sees me, and gives me a hug. If I come in pain,
barely standing up and hanging on, he scoops me up and holds me. He takes the
weight of the world from my shoulders. He sits and listens as I cry, listens as
I scream and rant. He watches as I pace and growl in frustration. He waits for
me to wear myself down and then he speaks. He speaks so that I can hear. He reminds
me of the truth.
I have
come with torn and bloody skirts. My legs covered in blood. My hair matted and full
of grass. He cleaned me and gave me new clothes. He tended my wounds gently and
healed them. I have come in my finest attire, my hair pulled up tightly into intricate
braids and buns. My skirts sweep the floor with a whisper. He pulls me into a
dance, then. He swings me around and laughs with me. We share in each other’s
delight.
It
stormed and I left. The storm began and I kept saying I would go, but I didn’t.
I wanted to wait for the storm to die, for the waves to stop crashing against
the shore. The hail hurt my head and the winds whipped my arms too hard to be borne.
So I hid. I avoided the courtyard, and I avoided him. I stayed far, far away.
And I suffered.
I
suffered until he came to find me. He left his cathedral and came hunting. He
chased after me when I ran, until he found me hidden under a rocky overhand in
the soot and ashes. He bent down and crawled in after me, joining me in my tiny
space. His robe ripped, and he ignored it. The cloth that had gotten wet with
all of the storms I was stuck in now stained black from the soot and ashes I
was sitting in. He didn’t give it a second glance. His arm went around my
shoulders gently and he tugged me into him. My head rested on his shoulder as I
sobbed. I sobbed and I cried. I ranted and I raved until I wore myself out.
Until all that was left was the ache and pain in my heart. He stayed.
Then he
called my name and took my hand. He guided and pulled me out of the tiny spot I
had found myself in. He took my hand and stood in the storm, waiting for me to
join him. Waiting for me to let him become the calm in my storm. I stared at him
for awhile, not moving an inch, expecting him to leave. Expecting him to walk
away or say I was too much work, or laugh in my face.
He didn’t.
He stayed
until I was ready to go, until I could step toward him. Then he picked me up
and carried me home through the storm as it slowly calmed around us.
