Praise

There are times that all I can say is “Praise.” There are no other words to be found.

With each step, nearly stumbling in the hallway from the weight of it. Praise.

The sound of footfall echoing under signs that provide direction with arrows to MRI, to elevators, to exits. It is a loud flip-flop, my farmer walk, that pulls glances from themselves up to me. I wonder if they think “slow down” or “easy girl” in unison to noise. Do they shake their head internal at the heavy walk of such a slight woman? Or do they hear the worship? Do they see the words in my smile containing and eyes puddling wild? Do they hear “praise him?”

And I rush outside to air bigger than these glass walls because I don’t want to spill here under stranger eye. And my feet move faster, wanting to run, wanting to go to that place where pound of heart matches pound of feet. All I hear is “Praise Him.”

The March lioness wind rushes hard against face, pushing my sweater from shoulders, opening it wide to expose what’s underneath.

And I do not fall to knee messy, placing forehead to patterned stone and melt. I do not flail arms back into wind and howl gratitude I hear roaring in ear and heart and head.

I do not tell the long story of ITP, of needles, of the hours. I do not tell the story of a father humbly following in a role of powerlessness, of a mother who said “that’s enough” to a searching needle.

I do not tell the story of the mothers watching their grown children watch their grandchild, all wrestling this. All wanting to protect.

I do not share the story of rejoicing at an “uneventful” surgery, of a high platelet number. I do not share the story of the long wait for recovery news and the drug induced sleep filled eyes of a boy, who is loved more deeply than he or we will ever realize.

I do not tell of the fear I saw transfigure into courage with easy laughter and silent prayer.

I simply sit on a bench. I smile from behind cheap sunglasses at each passer by and I breathe “Praise” to all.

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