Angels lite in trees, a variant of light, some well worn verse of amen on their lips, I hear them like a radio tuned in just a shade to the left of the source. The manna dropped from heavenly skies are dew drops of sugar on my tongue. I am small and with a face lifted, mouth open and desirous of this holy sustenance, courting, skirting, mangling the truth before it even passes my lips. I am the woman under the table of Holy, accepting crumbs because enough crumbs will fill the hunger. I will wear my faith, bleeding red with desire, bearing the signs of quiet grief because Holy has brought me to myself and I am found wanting and incomplete. It is the “loneliness of soul” that lays me at the feet of Jesus. It blesses me because I am not enough without him. It reminds me that I was taken from his side and breathed into by his breath and washed in his remembering of my need. I am small and I am great in his sight as he hung by his hands, nailed, beaten and looking me in the eye.
Angels we have heard on high, sweetly singing….a well worn verse…AMEN