Our movements were slow. Expected.
No one spoke. Not a sound. Not even the soft whooshing of breath as it was released and reclaimed.
I felt the brief bite of anger. It didn’t last long. It never did.
An irritation at being forced out of bed in this ritualized manner every single morning. No matter the weather, I stood, arms outstretched, greeting the day.
Even those times the sun refused to rise, and remained resting behind heavy clouds, we were there. Praying and singing and murmuring exaltations of gratitude.
But for those few moments I hated every minute of it. It was a quick and noiseless rebellion. One I had little control over. And one I would never admit to anyone. Not even Anne.
Most certainly not my mother.
Never her.
We pushed through the trees. An abrupt conclusion to the meandering forest and we stood, wind in our faces, at the precipice of the white, crumbling slate cliff that felt like home.
The sky started to turn a dusky rose. I could smell the morning. It filled my lungs with the one thing we all shared. Hope.
Feet shuffled along, pressing in close together. But not too close to the edge of the rock. It was a hundred foot drop to the trees below. No one dared foolish curiosity by peering over the side. We knew the consequences of not respecting the fear that kept our feet on the ground, backs to the rock.
Anne looped her arm with mine. Elbow to elbow. Her skin was cold. Always cold. I noticed how my friend continuously glanced at her father, Vince, who stood huddled close to Miriam Holler. His arm around the smaller woman, her frizzy, grey hair wild around her pinched face. I was surprised by the familiar intimacy between them. Romantic relationships were discouraged, even if not outright forbidden. We were one big family, but our true love was meant for the Lord alone. Even though I knew Vince and Miriam spent time together, I never thought they were anything more than fellow disciples, walking the path together. Clearly there was something else going on. I could tell by the set of Anne’s mouth that she wasn’t happy about it. She didn’t like Miriam. Truthfully, I didn’t either. She was the type to preach loudly for all to hear. She thought her kind of faith was the only kind of faith. And that it made her better—godlier—than everyone else. She was clearly having a hard time learning modesty. Perhaps she needed more time to reflect on her sins.
Though I would never say this to anyone but Anne. It wasn’t my place to question the behavior of my elders. I knew better.
Watching Vince and Miriam I wondered what Pastor would say about their behavior. I couldn’t imagine him condoning it. I looked away, not wanting to give any more thought to what they were or weren’t doing.
I searched the group of fifty odd individuals looking for my mother. Knowing I’d find her waiting at the tree line. Alone. For now.
The wind on the cliff blew hard. My ears and nose were numb. Anne shivered beside me, but tried to be discreet about it. I often thought she was made of tougher stuff than I was.
The silence was comforting. It was imbued with a constancy that was desperately craved by everyone here. We breathed in tandem. Puffs of air in the crystal clear morning. The sky began to lighten. The distant horizon began to turn a rich color.
I felt my heart soar at the first sight of the coming sun.
A crunch of rock signaled the footsteps we all knew were coming.
Pastor Carter, his long, thinning blondish grey hair was held back from his face with a string. He took my mother’s hand and made his way towards the rock outcrop. We parted for them in unison. Making way for the man who had brought us here.
Mom fell back, letting our leader take his place before us. Eyes closed. Tips of his thin leather shoes precariously close to the edge. He began to hum. A deep, throaty song.
The sun crawled steadily upwards. My voice joined Pastor Carter’s. I opened my mouth and the melody melted into the air. Reaching the heavens.
I was joined first by Anne. Then Caitlyn Walker and Stafford Givens, fellow disciples I had known since we were each ten. One by one each of us leant our tune to the congregational song. Our music greeted the dawn. It was our prayer. Our communion.
“Blessed is the day the Lord has made,” Pastor Carter exclaimed as we sang around him.
“Blessed is the sun, a true manifestation of God’s love. Of God’s power.” I felt a chill in my bones at the words. I could recite them by heart but their message felt different each and every time.
“Feel the heat. Feel the fire. Without it, we will die. Without it we will cease to be. Glory in the sun. Glory in the day. It is our gift.” Pastor Carter lifted his arms upward as if embracing the sun as it continued its torturous ascent into the waiting morning.
And we sang and sang. Until the sky was bright and the sun was full and warm.
Only then did we break our unified voice and make our way back home. Content that another day had begun. Another day on our planned course.
Another day towards our joined fate.
“You heading to the kitchen?” Anne asked as we walked steadily through the woods. Arms still linked, we moved as one. Our closeness obvious by anyone and everyone.
