Faith

Through my living room window, a tree stands spectacular. It’s luminous, like some yellow light shines from within. Even on this charcoal smudge of a morning it radiates gold, as if it spent the entire summer drinking sun and staggered to this day.

I worry about the coming rain; the treetop sways and nods; the leaves may fall and leave a bare-branched view. And when my company arrives next week my living room will seem bleak. Without distraction, they may notice the stain on the white couch. Without leaf, I may have to justify why I live in New Hampshire. I worry there will be nothing for them to see but a litter of leaves, passed out in gutters.

I strain to see the sky, to count the number of leaves left, to know what’s coming, but I can’t see a thing but what I’ve seen before. I know for a fact the leaves will fall. It’s bound to be winter. I might as well drape a strategic throw over the couch right now. I might as well call ahead and apologize for miscalculating the autumn peak. I might as well check movie times, vacuum, find a job at Starbucks.

Oh, this fragile moment. Just me, hanging from a glowing tree staring at a blank page. Doubt tugs like rising wind. It rustles and scrapes, and threatens to pull me away. I could fall at any moment; topple over like a pile of bills, like I have before.

What do I trust? Where is my faith? It lives in this fragile moment right here. From this silent place, I return to that sun-drunk tree outside my window. I see it sway and sigh and I will wait right where I am, so the light knows where to find me.