Ebinezers

Walking home from Brandt's along Delmar. The Christmas lights are up in the windows at Blueberry Hill but it seems a bit early; a man sits under the marquee at the Tivoli playing the saxaphone. Leaves crunch underfoot. The smell is orange, organic, dry, crackly. Through the black iron gate and along the quiet path and the saxaphone fades into crickets singing. The night knows to praise and reminds me.

Almost home.

My spirit sheepishly utters the words, "Thank you," to God my father, and I hand over the aches pressing on my heart, but before I do, I roll words around in my mouth as I walk as if somehow in tasting them I would better understand these unexpected pangs:

Regret. Grief. Fear. Love.

I let them fall from my mouth one by one as if they were meant to rest the leaves at my feet, meant to be left here in the night as intangible ebinezers between me and Him. I wonder at my struggle in laying these burdens down, wonder at how quickly I believe the voices that steal my joy, that tell me I have failed and run out of last chances.

As I cross the quiet street, take a deep breath, and look up, I say, "Thank you," again. This time, it tastes sweet, because I remember that he has kept the promises that I haven't been able to keep, and in that is the freedom we call grace.