The first taste of smoke before the flames scorch your lawn
The gentle drop of rain on your hand on the edge of the storm
The first wave of nausea before your sicker than you thought you could
The hint of fear in her voice as she mentions it might get worse
The first soft snowflake before your chest deep in winter
The life-vest they hand you when the boat starts to rock
The first time you take a breath when his heart has stopped
Everything is so uncertain. Maybe this will destroy everything I have, everything I feel, everything I had hoped for? Maybe it will change, stop, turn, rain, warm, stay, leave? Maybe it won’t, maybe we won’t be okay? Maybe I can change it?
Maybe there’s enough faith to look at my home burnt to the ground. Maybe all the wet trees will be blown over my path, and I’ll never make it home. Maybe I’ll hear my neighbours cries before my tears start to fall. Maybe the next time I vomit it will be the last. Maybe when no ones there, I will feel something give me strength to lay there patiently. Maybe the peace of death is more powerful than the fear of letting go of those we love. Maybe my car will start and I can drive to work. Maybe this end is the new beginning of something better.
Maybe it’s okay that my faith can’t move mountains. In my fear and haste I might move too much. What would the cold man say if my faith made all fire disappear? Or the fields and mountains of trees if I wished away the rains? Or if I stopped the pain that comes as the body heals and becomes stronger? If I stopped all chances to hurt… or heal? Or choose? What if I refused to welcome the hand of life because it too would pass away?
Maybe this sunrise is a sign that God didn’t notice what happened to us last night. Maybe not. Maybe its a sign that God will always shine upon us in the days after disaster, even if it’s not warm enough or soon enough to change the dark and dreary yesterday. Maybe you are starting to feel it too, the faith of maybe?
Maybe I will accept some faith into my heart
Maybe God’s light will grow new trees, to rebuild
Maybe I’ll accept your bottle of fresh water to heal my sopping wet thirst
Maybe I’ll rest my head on the kind nurse sitting next to me
Maybe we can cry together
Maybe I’ll shovel the snow off of your sidewalk too
Maybe I’ll make sure my life vest is secured so I can help you with yours
Maybe I’ll love you after your gone
By Leah Butz, and lovingly dedicated to my friends, the finders of faith