When fear gives birth to faith

The birds’ wings sound like corduroy pants, swishing, and I’m nursing Kasher on a log and there’s snow in my dreads. We’re on a trail in Jasper, and there’s no end in sight and Aiden’s eyes beg me to know the answer. He’s crying and hungry. We’ve been walking for two hours. Trent tries to keep us happy, tries to help us see what only hindsight can, that one day this will be a fond memory, but my son’s sobs tell me I’ve failed. And I consider my options. I could be frustrated, or I could sing. And so we sing Jesus Loves Me even with Aiden sobbing and Trent and I praying silently, and the birds’ wings swish. And I could berate Trenton for not checking the map better, but the children are learning love for us, learning God who is love from us. So I press my palm into his when he chokes, “I’m so sorry, Emily.” “It’s okay,” I say. And it feels better than a thousand angry words. We’ve come here for the mountains, for the smell of unadulterated Christmas in the spruce and pine, for the crisp of snow beneath shoe but it all melts away in Aiden's tears and he senses our fear. And fear gives birth to faith, for it recognizes the end of humanity and desperation for the divine. And I begin to make plans for life in the woods, the need of a mother to plan, and I prepare a hut in my mind and send Trent out to get firewood and I’ll gather roots and berries and Trent can make a bow and arrow. I’m carrying Aiden now, Kasher in the sled and Trent pulling, and the trail winding. And it’s hallelujah all around when we glimpse the car and we laugh hoarsely and it’s still too early for nostalgia. But I know it will come. In the hotel room we crawl into pajamas and watch cable and fall asleep in each other’s arms, a family collapsed. And life matters: all of it. I decide this as I tear up bread into a bowl of warm milk and feed it to my boy. It matters more than knowing when or how our problems, our trails, our journeys, will end. (linking with jen, laura and ann)