The news that comes at night.

I don’t really do phones.
There’s an internal part of me that rebels
against culture’s attachment to them,
so phones and I minimally intersect.
But my phone is my alarm clock,
so it is always near me when I sleep.
I know that is good
because if someone tries to reach me
in the silent hours of the night,
I know it is important
that I am connected.

But phone calls in the darkness
rarely bring good news;
good news can wait till the brightness
of the morning.

On August 5th, my phone rang at 2:21am
and as I was jarred awake from a deep sleep,
“HOME”
lit up the screen.
I answered,
“Hello?”
My mama’s voice shook on the other end,
“Noah was killed, he got hit by a car...”
The remaining shards of sleep instantly left me
and I was wide awake.
I think I said, “Oh no.”
I know I said, “I’m so sorry, Mama.
I’m so sorry.”
And because neither of us had anymore words,
we said, “I love you,”
and hung up the phone.

I sat for a brief moment on the bed in silence
before out of my mouth came a long wail;
it sounded hollow
with disbelief
it came from a place of foresight
currently numb to reality
but knowing the pain that was coming...

Nathan, who had woken up before I had hung up the phone,
now sat upright and asked me what had happened.
He rested his hand on my back
as I sat with one hand folded
around the phone in my lap
and one pressed against my mouth,
unable to speak.
My shoulders shook
until my cry abruptly stopped.

“Noah was killed,” I told him,
“He got hit by a car on his way to work.”
“I’m so glad I’m home.”

And suddenly my mind returned to my mama
whose aversion to phones I had inherited,
but who had dialed my number
in the dead of the night
to tell me that she and my papa had lost a third son,
and I was overwhelmed with sorrow and compassion for them.
What could I do?
How could I help?
I picked up the phone I had laid down,
grateful for its convenience and connectivity,
and I called home.

I had to wait till morning
when everyone would gather;
and because a person cannot fall back asleep
after the news that comes at night,
I did the only thing I knew to do...
in the stillness and darkness of those morning hours,
I prayed.

i am His dove

Song of Solomon 2:14 “My dove in the clefts of the rock, in the hiding places on the mountainside. Show Me your face, let Me hear your voice; For your voice is sweet and your face is lovely.”
 
my Beloved speaks and says to me
©10-2-12 hannah mclean

on the mountain of my sorrow
i hide among the rocks
Your dove

it is not that i intend to hide
but sometimes i cannot find my way
out of the deep clefts
i fall into
longing for the son
i must wait for You to come
straining my ears for You
till through the darkness
cuts the gentle peals of Your voice
offering life
hope
and an invitation

“let Me see your face
let Me hear your voice”

i marvel at my silence
at my tear-stained cheeks
my joyless eyes
and wonder why

“for your voice is sweet
and your face is lovely
to Me”

and quietly i step
out of my shallow hiding place
and into Your light

Your dove
whose ruffled feathers You straighten
whose drooping wings You strengthen
whose hungry, gaping mouth You fill

in the open for this moment
i know
i am weak
but beloved

The struggle to adjust.

The question these days has been, “So how are you adjusting to Cambridge?” This is not an easy question for me to answer. I sat down today to attempt to do a little bit of processing as to why.

As a general rule, I answer questions honestly. Excuse the cliché, but I am an open book; I have nothing to hide and nothing to prove, I know Who I live for and before, and as a result, I am free to be open. That’s what makes this adjustment so difficult; right now, I am not an open book. There are things in my life that I don’t want to talk about, can’t talk about, or have no idea HOW to talk about. I am not in a place where I can welcome people of varying levels of relationship into my life’s story; because my life’s story at the moment is engulfed in a grieving process that brings to the surface not only my own vulnerabilities, but also the vulnerabilities of others. My openness is not, for lack of a better word, particularly “safe” right now.

This makes adjusting to a new environment and community difficult. I feel like I don’t know how to start or carry on a normal conversation. I feel stiff and awkward as I enter into conversations with new faces, and struggle to remember details they share with me or even their names. Where I naturally am at ease, I feel like I’m just stumbling along. It is not because I don’t desire relationship and friendship; not because I don’t get excited about meeting new people and enjoying the privilege of learning who they are; not because I’m shy or uninterested...but because I’m burdened by uncertainty of what to share about myself; because I’m limited by my lack of strength and joy to pour into the lives of those I meet; because I’m walled in by my own confusion and lack of understanding of where or how I am. What has been natural simply feels unnatural because I have not yet regained my balance.

So when I am asked the question of how I am adjusting, I say the only honest thing I can that won’t make them feel as though this new place or these new people have failed me...”I’m working on adjusting. It has been challenging, but I am actively trying.”