the migrant wife

It’s the season where all things whirl by seemingly chasing after the windy blustery air in a mad hurry. Laundry dries just as the clothes on our backs need washing again. The constant flow of correspondence, both written and electronic, beckon at our attention. Dates of exams creep up and usher in hasty hours of cramming, study, revision and bored, yet hurried, scribbling.

Packed, staccato days, ordered and bracketed by the legato of lasting hope. Morning finds me curled up in the armchair nearest to the window in our living room, with a steaming hot cup of strong tea, the last wisps of slumber still clinging on to my eyelids, poring over my bible. Hope, joy, faithfulness leap off the page and into my soul, washed down by a good sip of tea, delightfully warm at this time, saturating the hidden nooks of my heart. The Word illuminates – just like moments prior, when you push back the grey curtains amidst morning yawns, the crisp, gentle dawning sun invades, with surprising tenacity, its rays waking each bit of oak, marble, glass in our tiny flat with golden purpose. I, too, yearn to be wooed into being by so great, so terrible a Light – these three quarters of an hour, marked holy, set apart, reminds me of such fulfilled longings, and tethers me to the lasting hope to come. Outside the framed window, faded leaves and tow-coloured branches still crash and roar in the blustery autumn air.