What ache tempers the hushed delight at the infant’s rhythmic breath?
What sadness gnaws at the sweetness of a spring dawn or blurs the crispness of the autumn glow?
Perhaps it is that suprising joy—defined by its yearning.
Perhaps it is a humble acknowledgement of the One Creator—the ache within grieving the ache without.
Ruhama Lo-ruhama. Ammi Lo-ammi.*
“You are my God.”
And we are reminded to hold loosely.
That too-oft repeated platitude quickens the tumult within: This world is not my home…and the next is just too bright for these eyes—so I squint into the glare.
And turn away.
Let me not stand tight-fisted before You. Let me not shrink back when my plans come to naught. Give me eyes to see and weep—and a heart to grieve if need be. But let me bear up with open hands when you require of me my hopes, my freedom, my life…my husband or my children.
Let me not declare as wages due those gifts freely bestowed.
So I sojourn on and try to see the ache within the glow.
1 Peter 2:9-11
Ammi: My people Lo-ammi: not my people
Ruhama: Mercy Lo-ruhama: no mercy.