The Unselected Journals of Emma M. Lion: Vol. 5

by Beth Brower

The edge of life can be marked in black faster than one would suppose. Why not ring all the bells?

The memory came to mind just now. And something I’ve not felt for longer than I care to admit began to take shape. That, come sunshine or cloud, I was going to be fine. More than fine. In place, and strong, and anchored in. Tonight, Islington became a stake. And Pierce. And Mary. And Saffronia. And Hawkes. All I can think of is the sound of the rain on the canopy, and everyone still smiling.

“It takes a great deal to trust the future after one is acquainted with loss.” “It feels impossible, for longer than is comforting. And then too tentative to trust.”

“It does. But it seems that sword pierced Christ so that we always have a future. Even one different than planned.”

“So one trusts the future,” I answered. “Despite knowing loss will be had again.” “That seems to be what we are called to do.” “Keep looking for sun on the horizon?” “Keep looking for sun on the horizon.” “Faith in the abstract is more comfortable,” I said. I heard an amused sound, then, “It is. But I begin to suspect that faith made concrete is more comforting.”