but most of all

today has been busy with fall camp. it has been fun... and good to laugh. i feel the undercurrent of sorrow seeping through my eyes and smiles and laughter, and i can't fool anyone. but i've been trying to keep it from sweeping over me. my attempt at ignoring it made me remember a story i wrote 5 years ago... i've edited it some to more accurately reflect where i am now:

My house has become a curiosity as of late.  Over the course of the last few weeks, I’ve had certain visitors come… and stay.  Without asking, they’ve taking up residence somewhere along my borders, or inside my home. In the mornings I can hear Brokenness outside the front door, pacing across the creaking wood floorboards.  He has developed a routine: knock twice, pace.  Tap at the bay window, pace.  Knock again, sit.  He’s very eager to be with me, but he gives me such a hollow feeling that I politely decline and attempt to ignore his requests.  When I venture outside to go about my business, he clings to me like a shadow.  When I (we, I should say, for he has taken to lodging on my front porch) return, I ask him to wait outside and he always replies, “Happily, ma’am.”

In the evenings I’ll often find Mara and Mourning in the garden, strolling on the stone paths overtaken with vines and ivy, or resting under the gazebo’s graceful arms.  Neither of them are very cheerful creatures, and in a small way I fear them. Or rather, I fear what affect they would have upon my countenance and being.  And so I oblige them with an arm in arm stroll across the grounds, and soon after I bid them goodnight, I’ll hear them sing.  Its always the same song: a slow lament that winds its way through the eaves of the house and under the crack in the kitchen window and settles itself softly in the hallway. 

Sorrow is a peculiar thing. He likes to hide in the most unusual places… in between the bed sheets, for instance.  I find him frequently peeking out from behind the picture frames that line the walls, or lingering around the coffee cups.  He especially likes my perfume cabinet.  He and I often sit on the overstuffed couch that rests in the living room, and entertain Silence, who comes to call rather frequently.    

But most of all, there is Hope.  She comes less often these days, but her visits always cheer me.  She usually takes my hand as we walk to the top of the stairs, through the french doors and out on the balcony.  We sit and watch the sunset and before she leaves, she hands me a gift…always the same, small token: an exquisitely carved wooden leaf made from solid oak.  She always repeats the same phrase, “Fulfillment is on his way.”