Wearing Your Brave In The City

"The best thing about the future is that it comes one day at a time."

~Abraham Lincoln~
 

 I used to be afraid to fly in an airplane. I had my first panic attack in church. Thoughts of hosting a Thanksgiving Dinner would propel me into high anxiety, frequent trips to restroom. Recently, my daughter and I flew across the country to meet the newest member of our family. When children grow up, move away,  raise families of their own, seeing their beloved face trumps dread of skating with the clouds. And anticipation of cradling elfin grandson in the crook of loving arms, this image stamped across my brain, this yearning for the pristine, unblemished, it has flown with me over the years. Much like an invisible friend who shares your affinity for crystalline conversation. With family, moments take flight of their own, a web of beautiful, liberating acceptance.

 During this trip, we all made our way into D.C., trekked along the sidewalk together, holding up umbrellas to ward off rain showers. We visited Smithsonian Museum, ooh-ed and aah-ed with granddaughter over multiple Nemo look-a- likes in pristine glass tank. She found a few. She spotted Dory. Joy spilled over, caressed the clear glass.

Baby boy slept, oblivious of all that mirth. Hope diamond showed off its glittery splendor. And the final destination, reason for our trip into the city, the Lincoln Memorial, where thousands of Christians were gathering to pray. For the city, for the church, for the world. For our own wayward selves.

I took a seat on a nearby bench, daughter-in-law and baby boy soon joined and as the worship music played, singing pulsed through all that political and historical atmosphere. Voices joined together, Korean, American, African American, Chinese, Hispanic and more. Surveying the mammoth crowd, an epiphany swirled through my mind; this mega church gathering is ageless in its certainty, an organic sanctuary; Abraham Lincoln would be pleased. We yearned for a wedge of they sky. Let Heaven come. Please. Thank you. During this assemblage, a kind-eyed news reporter made his approach, could he ask me some questions? I darted a swift glance at daughter-in-law who was nursing baby boy. I did not wash my hair today! She is nursing! Hushing my own wayward self, tugging on my brave, I turned to the gentleman with ABC stitched onto his jacket and said Yes. Later when family asked me what what I had said, I answered truthfully, "I don't have a clue." But I don't have panic attacks in church anymore.

We viewed the segment on television later in the day, my name and city of residence announced, the interview edited, most likely catering to vast audience. I wondered at how those pregnant clouds held their bellies tight for ninety whole minutes. I thought about our hurting world and neon-colored fish, how in midst of uncertainty and darkness he reaches down, offering fresh glimpses of light. And my ears pinned on that one word  the reporter coaxed from this grandmother's heart. The words that eclipsed bad hair, my daughter-in-law's possible momentary discomfort. My inward fear of failing.

Yes, I have Hope.


Hope is faith holding out its hand in the dark
~George Iles~