Taken on June 11, 2011
The road is long, my friend,
and not smooth. We expected
the dark forest, the thorns,
and unsuspected pitfalls.
We even knew that some
would turn away from us, toward
broader, easier roads. It hurt,
but did not surprise,
when they denied the way and placed traps
for the pilgrims. The sharp iron teeth
snapped shut, broke bone, made much blood.
And so we walked, dragging the brokenness.
Pain became a constant companion,
relieved only by laughter
and the breaking of bread.
In the darkness we sometimes hurt each other
and did not even know what we had done.
The road is long, my friend,
and the journey rough.
This harsh wood
prepared for each one on his path
grows heavy by afternoon.
There’s not much rest.
We walk as strangers in this foreign land with no rest
and yet this uphill road leads to the light of home.
The night is far spent. The day is at hand.
—Madeleine L’Engle
06.11.2023: There she is, making her way back home. We’ve walked down that road so many times. She and her father and one of her brothers are out there now. I hope the mosquitoes are leaving them alone. The sun has been scarce this past week and a half. It’s out now, but that grey, fleecy blanket is still spread out over much of the sky. I long for the sunshine, but when it sticks around, will I start complaining about hot I am? Sometimes it seems like the biggest battle of life is just trying to find contentment in whatever circumstances you find yourself in.
I don’t know if I can read Madeleine L’Engle anymore. I never really liked her fiction, but I found wisdom in her writing. Was that, though, only because I was bound and determined that I would? Was I simply curving myself around her words, hoping to make them fit my unique contours?