Late 2014 Jakin, my husband, set out to enter a local short film festival. While he was the master videographer, director and producer, I was dragged in as his novice accomplice and script-write. The theme was 'Winter Light', with much room for interpretation and expression. I encourage you to take a minute to watch and enjoy! Lone bird cry wakes morning,
And the dawn stirs. Sheets pull and feet hit floor hard. Day begins again. The cold seeps deep into bones; Water shivers through pipes, And kettle steam wisps delicate. Outside the frost bites, And all around creeps fog. Confused, heavy. Ages of dreary days dulls the driven mind. The chill steals breath sharp, Billows cool and cuts hard. Droplets form and track slow down signs. Footsteps drag heavy, joining the chorus. This day, grey, like every other. Is there more than this? Sun rises. Ancient skies are streaked with light, As secrets in the mist whisper soft across the valley. Heart beats and every breath is seen. The mud churned trail speaks journey, And draws in deep. Trees stretch tall, As underfoot branches snap with every step. Mist hangs regal, cloaking the rippled river path- And fades. All glory awakens! Luminescent moon fades brilliance. Light rises. Filling every crevice, painting every rock face, And warming the cold inside. And there is more, There is light, here, now – and in every season.
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The bleeps from the monitor pierced still room and drew my attention to the screen. The green line traced and spiked in wider waveforms than before, small numbers in blue dipping and flashing red. Just for a moment. Glancing down I saw the baby’s chest rise and fall drawing in rapid, regular breaths, cheeks rosy and pink. Hand on edge of small cot I spoke soft to his mother, “It’s okay.” She had started anxious out of a restful slumber at the noise. “It’s just a small drop in his heart rate. It’s back up now and he doesn’t look too concerned.” With a knowing smile she sank back into her seat, eyes tired. “I should be used to that noise”, she said, hand waving toward the cardiac-respiratory monitor mounted above her young son’s cot, “But it still scares me every time.” Sitting again beside her I noticed the worn book she fingered in her lap. “What are you reading?” I motioned. Carefully she opened the aged pages, but even my curiosity could not help decipher the foreign script. She smiled at my confusion, “It is a book of prayers. Sikh prayers. I pray them often, for my son.” Benjamin had been a patient in the Neonatal Intensive Care Unit ever since he was born, at 26 weeks gestation. A full 14 weeks too soon, Ben’s intricate and multifunction systems were neither fully developed nor compatible with life unassisted. He would not have survived without the weeks of respiratory support for immature lungs, gastric tube feeding, countless intravenous drips or the myriad of medications and electrolyte replacements. Even then there were days we thought might be his last. Thoughtful eyes, deep and weary, looked at her young son and she murmured, “I never used to be a praying woman.” ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------ Mary’s frail body curled on the hospital bed, eyelids drooped pale and transparent as she waited for the wardsman to come. The bed looked colossal, puffed pillows and blankets piled high, seeming to swallow up her 30kg frame. All I could see was her pale face and bright scarf, wrapped graceful around her bare head. “Mary”, I tried to whisper soft so as not to startle, “I just came to check that you’re all ready to go to your procedure.” Eyelids fluttered and rose slow as a smile wisped across her brow. “Yes, I think I’m ready.” I adjusted a pillow under her instruction, and we chatted about the drizzling morning rain. “I love the rain.” Mary closed her eyes again as she spoke. “I love its smell. The freshness you know? It seems always so full of promise, smelling like tomorrow, you know?” In and out of hospital for most of her 50 years of life, Mary was no stranger to suffering. A fierce disease had gripped her gastric-intestinal system, leading to countless operations, and months of diagnostic testing in and out of hospitals. She seemed to me to carry a grace that rested on you when in her presence, and depth of serenity that denied her experience. “I want to see tomorrow. Just for a moment.” She gripped my arm strong with bony hand, her voice rimmed with fierce determination, “There has to be a tomorrow.” ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------ Why is it that it takes sickness or loss to draw us to think deep, to question tomorrow? Death stares straight into our eyes, and fear grips heart tight and we cry out. Why? Is it the fear, the loss of control or threat of absence of life itself? Or is it because in that moment, our weakness and vulnerability stretch open heart-eyes wide and we see clear, just for a moment. We see and we feel and we cry out - there must be more than this. “He has planted eternity in the human heart, but even so, people cannot see the whole scope of God’s work from beginning to end.” Ecclesiastes 4:11 Eternity in our hearts, deep. Hidden. Suppressed and stuffed in. Life distracts, pulls hard for our attention, and we don’t have the time. Time to see, to stop, to know, to value. Time pushes us into the rush, carries us through day, and haste makes waste. Soul empty, there is a whisper for more; yet we are independent, fine, altogether functioning, strong. Yet faced with the end, in the weakness and vulnerability of loss, we look at race run and see a moment. Just a moment in time. And what is gained? “If I find in myself a desire which no experience in this world can satisfy, the most probable explanation is that I was made for another world…I must keep alive in myself the desire for my true country, which I shall not find till after death; I must never let it get snowed under or turned aside; I must make it the main object of life to press on to that other country and to help others to do the same.” - C.S. Lewis, Mere Christianity Here the fight is waged and battle lines drawn. Everyday is a fight to see. A struggle to live for more than that which is seen. To live with eternity’s light in our eyes, heart drawn and all affection captivated by the One who creates life and holds it gentle in hands. Our weakness is a gift, a vulnerable window through which we catch sight of the Glory God, who transforms and empowers and purposes. Life fades, just a passing, momentary breath in the grand expanse of eternity. Life and death and all earth proclaim that there is more than this. |
AuthorHannah Mai Archives
October 2016
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