My mother always whisked at me, stop whining! That’s what they all said, the keening call of my desires unmet at three years old, and four, and five. Perhaps if love had listened, eyes lent for one certain moment, my pleadings would have found their rest, my voice settled like cooling water in our stovetop kettle. Remember the urgency of that whistle? I shrieked like that. These days, I feel like a child again. I pout until I am sick, helpless with rage as I cry out, Deliver us, Lord! Spare us the trial! For some, grief brings tears-- grace restoring balance deep in the blood, bringing temperatures down. But not for me. I am intolerably hot. People say, nothing is wasted with God. The way I’m steaming, I fear I will evaporate into nothingness, leaving no one to whine the necessary complaints, Angel of Death, pass over! Free us, Lord! Losing that voice would be a waste at any age. Karen Jessee ******* Please offer your reflections by leaving a comment below, and invite your friends to visit Search and Know.
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