beyond this shadow's edge I know now what it will be like when the veil between our world, and the next, vanishes completely. on wednesday, the warbling voices of (more than a few) off-key children rose in cheery Christmas tunes from the depths of our small school's gymnasium. and the hardest part for the children was not the singing as you'd expect— but instead the impossible restraint of singing without lifting their arms above their eyes to peer through the over-bright green and red stage lights and into the audience beyond. more than one of them failed in this restraint, (my own children among them) but quickly remembered themselves and lowered their arms again—still unseeing. and you could feel the gathering frustration building in their tiny bodies: are they out there? are they watching? what do they think of me now? when the final song came to a cheerful close, they gave it up altogether. every child had his or her arm above their eyes, sparkling and unsure, peering out into the black, stage blinded and still unable to make out more than a few meager shapes. then all at once, someone flipped on the light. for a moment, we held our breath, letting the children find us in the crowd, their eager eyes scanning faces with hope and determination. and though we had already been clapping as the children gave their final bow, once more the thunder of applause filled the echoing gymnasium, and once more there rose the whoops, hollers, and whistles of unbridled joy: you did it! we saw you! we are so proud of you! I stood in the back, and couldn't stop the tears from coming my children's faces fixed on my own— for the joy of being seen at last for where I had been all along. and it struck me like a lightning bolt that just beyond this shadow's edge, I too am watched by those who wait for the light to be flipped on – those witnesses in the cloud have yet to stop cheering for me. and I feel sure of it now, one day I will hear the sweet sounds of their clamorous applause and shouts of raucous joy— their pride over me chasing away the failures and fears of my imperfect song.
This lovely poem appears at the end of the “through Death—” section of my upcoming book as the Sparrow flies, and you can now order both paperback and ebook versions on Amazon, Barnes and Noble, and Books-A-Million and Bookshop.org.
Gracie...