He is not one to ask. And now that I think of it, he didn’t. But the request was there in his voice, clear as a cold night sky.
There is this, and this, and this, he said through the phone, my little brother miles away, the one there every day, the one of us shouldering the greatest burden. And this. I’m not sure what we should do about this. I stood there in my yard, listening, the sky a slate blue, the leaves brown and brittle.
We can decide when everyone’s here, he said. At Christmas.
December, I thought. Advent. The season of waiting. December will be a long month for him.
I’m thinking I’ll come on down now, I said, silently rearranging things. What if I come on down.
I could hear him exhale, I swear. And just at that moment the tiniest little feather floated so gently from the sky I reached out my hand and it landed there. And then there was another, and another, and another. I stood in awe, looking toward the sky, toward the trees, toward anything at all that could be the explanation, that could be the why, finding no reason at all.
And then we laughed, both of us did, at the weight of the conversation, at the timing, at our awe and disbelief as those feathers fell to the earth.
At the magnitude of the moment. At the promise.
He shall cover you with His feathers, and under His wings shall you trust. His truth shall be your shield and buckler. Psalm 91:4