They’ll leave this earth carrying the sounds of our home into an ever be land.
There are sounds they know
Sounds I pray they never do
And sounds I wish I could erase
Sounds already spilled into hearing ears
by human mouths and a messy place
What sounds will yours carry?
The humdrum acceptance of a fallen world?
Apathy that leaves a bitter taste?
Silence that’s easier?
Or something beckoning humility?
I pray for the ladder in our home, and for grace to blanket the sounds each day.
But it doesn’t always.
Some seasons hold light and full, where the blanket is easier to wrap, to set down where needed, to hold in strength-grips of faith.
Other times there is blindness, stumbling for the grace, wandering without a foretaste of where the blanketing can be stolen or found.
Some days it feels like survival
Others it feels like chasing dreams
But most days it feels like living.
Ours was 15 months old when I began recording what he already carries,
in a knowing and marked way.
The bath drawing
Front door knob turning
Music singing mercies
The storm roaring
The gate swishing
Eggs whisking early
How we say his name
The happy clapping
A page turning new
And the kiss goodnight
The words we say
And the ones we don’t.
Then there’s the heartbeat, do we steady him?
Dear Jesus at bedtime gives him gateways to amen
And the tender, and sometimes clumsy, footing of morning dance
Sings louder and louder praise washing over what’s to come.
The I’m sorry from his dada teaches forgiveness where more stubborn
or stung? hearts are hardened.
I hear you and I see you listening from my eyes and mouth
are gifts I hope he passes on
When this world whizzes past
in sirens and shadows and strangers too busy to stop. To see.
He knows laughter is contagious
And that yawns draw in tickles under armpit stretches.
He knows yes means yes and no means no, and he’ll speak it back
To a world that demands make me feel good, say yes to me.
He hears tears falling soft with his hazel eyes wide opened,
And knows that sometimes they fall hard,
sounding more like doors slammed, or wet stains into pillows.
He also knows the cupping of tears
Echoing off of hugs, and I love you’s and it will be okay.
He hears stories uprooted from a past meant for keeping
He hears memories told, and re-told, for the sake of remembering
He hears the news of a world that could spiral out to nothing
But of the hopes and the dreams and the ground it was laid.
He hears slander and sin
Of Jesus and salvation.
He knows danger and fears
And the sound of sweet rescue.
His ears are wide open, his eyes even wider.
And we place what he carries in his hands.
This world places what he carries in his hands.
Jesus, place all He needs carry home to You in his hands.
May You be their sweet whispers.
when the sounds of this place
and its people
are too loud, or too broken, or too silent.