Fridays are for mortality

It had been quite a week, what with the outrageous fortunes of modern medicine: half miracle, half guesswork, half science; early morning conversations about the (hopefully hypothetical) call to martyrdom in a culture that refuses the way of the cross, preferring to “stand its ground.”

It had been a week, with sudden death, and the impossible burden of stewardship over the life of others; decisions over what constitutes a full life, a good death.

Mortality is a beast, and in the midst of its mob we proclaim eternal life.

Broken eggshells on the ground outside my door might signify birth or its interruption; regardless, the birds sing mightily. I wish my prayer was as articulate as theirs.

Then, the choice of incarnation, an island carved out of immortality, implies that God is not immune to hard weeks.

The endless knotted dance of the Trinity replies that even such grief as love often hatches can find comfort in the intertwining of time and eternity, embodiment and ashes, the lilting of the birds and the sighs of prayers too deeply buried for words, disinterred and sung aloud around the throne of heaven.

About Rosalind C Hughes

Rosalind C Hughes is a priest and author living near the shores of Lake Erie. After growing up in England and Wales, and living briefly in Singapore, she is now settled in Ohio. She serves an Episcopal church just outside Cleveland. Rosalind is the author of A Family Like Mine: Biblical Stories of Love, Loss, and Longing , and Whom Shall I Fear? Urgent Questions for Christians in an Age of Violence, both from Upper Room Books. She loves the lake, misses the ocean, and is finally coming to terms with snow.
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