On the stairs she sits.
Eyes reddish and puffy.
It’s been a long night – stretching over a year. And more.
A violent, eternal coughing spasm
had finally sputtered out into
She could only place her hand on his chest
“God, let him stop, let him sleep.”
And he did.
Now in morning light she sits.
Coughing had revived and then sputtered out again.
“I don’t ask ‘why’ anymore. I don’t.
I know God is good.
I know God is love.
I know God has all power.
I know there is purpose even in this…but…”
And I told her she had just won a gold star for a perfect set
of Sunday School answers.
The reality is, faith has its own violent,
And often sputters out to barely a
no deep lung reservoir on which to draw;
But you’re still breathing.
And so is he.
And lying next to him on his bed,
bathed in sun’s rays
the boy and I breathe together and,
in a glorious moment that seemed to linger like
dust entranced by sunlight,
faith breathes from a deeper place.