My Gran, she’s taking slow walks outside the hospital now.
Her heart’s growing stronger, beating certain.
I wash down the cupboards in the kitchen.
I pray for Gran’s heart attack recovery, for each step she keeps taking, ninety-one and frail-boned and Irish-determined.
Life’s a risk and maybe she’s stronger than I am, accepting each heart beat, each step, as ridiculously dangerous — and wanting it anyways.
I wear gloves, carry this spray bottle with me from cupboard to cupboard.
The cleaner has this emblem on the front of a skeletal hand, the words DANGER blazoned in white. The Farmer found it in the automotive section. It’s a degreaser. It’s cathartic to scrub hard.
Like I am scrubbing things away. Like a working out of faith.
The Farmer told me today in the kitchen, me bent and relentlessly scouring with that potent cleaner, that sometimes dangerous is good — when fully understood, when rightly lived.
That our God would only be safe if He were dead.
But He is the Living Word and His Word is a flashing, double-edged sword and He doesn’t write Himself into neat five-point outlines but He is like the wind —
and He speaks in parables that subvert, and poetry that ignites, and metaphors that jolt and there is nothing safe or small or stiff about Him.