We sit quietly in the near-dark room.
Wood spindles hug hips and back,
bare feet touch soft fawn-colored carpet,
worn wooden armrests cradle elbows and
arms filled with the weight and warmth of her.
Feet push gently against the soft carpet,
silence broken by the creaking voice of the old rocking chair.
Voice speaking from worn wood and springs,
singing songs of other babes who settled into sleep
between these armrests.
The sleep-dance begins as fingertips travel
again and again from brow to the tip of her nose.
Lids close and lashes lock.
A defiant inhale catches once on the way in
as she becomes heavy in my arms.
How much love has nestled between arms
in near-dark moments like this one?
How many love-filled dreams
and holy pleadings
have been born from this chair?
I heard them then, the prayers of the mothers,
holy assurances creaking truth and comfort
in steady rhythm with my own,
declaring hopeful faith in
a God who hears.
I look down to see that sleep has won.
Her head tips back, arms fall to her sides.
The fringe of lash remains locked,
her face soft,
caressed by prayer.
I think there is nothing more holy than time spent between arms in this chair.
And no songs more lovely than
those that rise from the creaking of it.
Holy prayers from rocking chairs.
I held her again just yesterday.
Height equal, our foreheads touch as we embrace.
Her eyes close in pain, and tears flow
through locked lashes.
We stand, rocking back and forth.
So much unholy has happened.
Grown-up loss with big-girl pain.
As we stand rocking, my mind plays the creaking of the old chair,
and I hear the prayers of the mothers
singing through time.
Prayers flow heavenward
as tears stream.
I notice,
her breath still catches once on the way in
as she becomes heavy in my arms.
I hear them now, the prayers of the mothers,
holy assurances creaking truth and comfort
in steady rhythm with my own,
declaring hopeful faith in
a God who hears.
Long-ago pleadings from foremothers
who saw her then, who see her now,
and bless the God
who hears and heals
the broken hearts of our beloved ones.
Holy prayers from rocking chairs…
I heard them then,
I hear them now,
creaking truth and comfort into the future.
I think there is nothing more holy.
Jill English is an avid encourager of people and a lover of words. She is most at home out-of-doors, especially if the out-of-doors involves a beach. Her most magical moments happen as ‘Mimi’ while spending time with her well-loved grandchildren and her adult kids. Jill spends her workdays helping others discern vocational call through theological education. Her favorite conversations involve connecting the sacred dots of everyday life and faith. Jill lives in Grand Rapids, MI with two small, elderly pups.
Dear Jill… I felt every word of these “then and now” pictures you have painted. Holy holdings indeed. Thank you.
Sacred, the prayers of those who have gone before. Your story instantly brought my grandmother’s armless rocking chair to mind. I see her sitting in it sewing or making the crepe paper flowers she crafted to decorate the gravestones of those who had gone before.