I stumbled up the hill and into your doorway, leaving my boots by the door. You handed me a baby and my arms felt weak. What if I drop him — what do I do when he cries? I’ve never done this before. Don’t cry. Here, look at this — don’t cry. I told him a story to make it all better, and was surprised when it worked.
An airport shuttle bus dropped me off in the mountains at dusk. Inside the house, a crowd of young adults were circled up to pray before supper. But first, everyone, say hello to the new girl. I wanted to disappear, to open my eyes and be back in my hayloft. A quilt thrown on the top bunk was my welcome. I hung my hat on the curtain rod, tucked my favorite books against the wall to ward off the lonely. There was breakfast to be served the next morning.
Someone told me, when I was 18 and unsteady, something I will never forget. The believer goes from glory to glory, she said. Even if it looks like out of the frying pan and into the fire — out of life and into life.
Chores never stop on a farm. Squawking geese and chattering guineas heralded my mom and me as we pulled in the drive. “We have chicks to move to the pasture,” said the farmer’s wife, after she had changed a few diapers and given a few stirs to supper on the stove. My belongings weren’t yet unpacked, but that could wait.
From one glory to the next, from stormy skies to blue ones. I am being transformed. Molded, shaped, softened, chiseled like a rude piece of wood. I am never ready, to come or to leave.
My sister likes her coffee sweet; my next door neighbor likes it black. It’s not been so long I don’t remember, cannot pick back up. Hand me the baby. This time, I think I know what to do.
In medias res — [in ˌmēdēˌas ˈrās]
adverb — into the middle of a narrative; without preamble; into the midst of things.