We are two days before arriving
and the drive
has already been long.
We take some comfort
that the weather is warmer than usual,
though the landscape has been drab and brown.
The waiting feels hurried now,
and I wonder whether
hope can become impatient sometimes.
These days it feels like
we only have the peace of simple things—
this sky, the color of the fire’s ash
as day steps over the threshold into night.
The lights appearing now above,
unmoved this far from home
where the wind, hard-blown,
has driven us.
We are keeping company
with the stones, just you and me
(and someone we’re expecting)
with the trees (and the river) that move in place.
Tonight we’ll eat broiled fish and flatbread, no wine,
blessing the One who owns it all,
water and grain, the birds tucking in,
the hungry animal who is our friend.
I’ll say an extra prayer
beyond the ritual.
I’ll pray for protection.
I won’t pretend we’ll find ourselves
in a place like this—
that will come at a different time.
I’ll pray for strength,
just enough to see us through
this final stretch.
Stay with us, please.
No one knows us here.
The arrival is yet
about two days out
and I feel alone here,
lost in doubt.
God, be with us.
Joseph, en route
by troy cady