It’s Friday morning, a day usually reserved for silence. On Friday’s there are purposefully no calls scheduled, driven by a knowing need to rest from nonstop communications during the week. This Friday is different as there’s need to catch up on work missed when sick and temporarily out of sorts.

It’s 2am so I should be sleeping, but my mind won’t rest, returning to thoughts previously put to sleep with bedtime stories. They’re not exactly children anymore, unruly and disobedient. Now they seem to be suffering from separation anxiety and I’m unsure whether to walk away and sleep, or stay awake close by to hold them so they don’t cry.

Course I’ll end up holding them – I always do. Hold them until my arms get too tired and they return again to sleep.

I look out my window listening for the horizon because where I live it can only be seen by sound. I think of the train tracks and crickets I used to listen to in the middle of the night whilst staring out of my grandmother’s barred bedroom windows. I think of the cows nearby, how they smelled, and how it was the only time I’d talk to God. Back then it wasn’t prayer; it was just a conversation driven by a deep youthful sorrow.

If anything, He always made a point to answer, and all He asked for in return was that I remain confident in His presence. Back then it wasn’t called obedience; it was just an unspoken understanding. I was seven when we first began talking in earnest, but I grew slightly deaf over the years and began to make up what I couldn’t be sure I heard.

After many years I’ve developed confidence in having the ability to become that little girl again, but I’ve also learned she’s a chronic runaway who decade after decade becomes more exhausting to find.

I’d like to dedicate this hour to her, to feeling her nearby wanting to be found. Every time we embrace I’m overcome with her energy, and the way she releases me without fear I won’t run away like her. She’s the bravest person I’ve ever known, and she always wipes away my tears before reminding me to look out the window and listen.

The horizon is coming. I can hear it. I hope you can too.

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