The afternoon passed slowly, quietly. We were becoming easy with each other again, effortless, and the self-assured stream of silence and speech began to flow naturally between us, as it does only between those who have been together for not only several subsequent hours, but their entire lives. We passed the time as sisters, as companions, as true and desperately affectionate friends. The sky was becoming tinged with pink as we crossed the border into New Mexico. We rolled down the windows and yelled goodbye to Colorado, picked the first New Mexican boy we saw as our mascot, and began immediately began looking for cacti and Navajos. That sunset was one of the most beautiful I have ever seen: the colors were at play, toddlers, hitting up against each other and falling down, spinning in dizzy circles until the entire sky was swirled with their joy.
As the moon led the stars in successful revolt against the sun, deeper and deeper into the darkening sky, the oncoming cars all turned on their headlights. Kristie and I put on the most melancholy love songs we could find, acoustic and full of angst, and kept driving. The night itself was drawing us forward now, giving us energy, willing us to continue. Each truck we passed urged us onward. Each mile marker reminded us of our destination. We became serious and silly all at once, self-conscious and senseless, consumed with the motion of the wheels and the pull of the night. We were beginning to feel, to allow ourselves, for the first time in days, emotions. We talked—we talked for hours. We talked about our hurts and desires unjustifiable but still true, irrational but still beautiful. We talked about our parents, our friends, our boys. We talked about Noah’s Ark, the future. We talked about how we had hurt each other over the years, and how sorry we were. It seemed as though all of a sudden everything in the world depended on the two of us knowing each other, depended on each of us making the other feel profoundly safe, profoundly loved.
We were afraid, then, and finally able to admit it. Both of us were afraid for what the next day would bring: we were afraid for to see our family, afraid for the service, afraid most of all to have to leave again within hours of our arrival. I was afraid of returning to Colorado, because it meant the summer would be over in a week. Kristie, too, was afraid of returning to school, afraid of leaving those river banks, afraid of the tangible weight her upcoming decisions held. We both were afraid to leave that car, to move beyond that night—the moon, the road, the music, the laughter—and back into a vertical world, a planted world, a world that did not move at seventy five miles an hour like our little Malibu.
-sarah, the most brilliant writer and a precious sister
“there are Churches who place all of their importance in social justice, but mock personal holiness, and Churches who adhere to teaching personal holiness but scoff at social justice..never should we let anyone make the church drive a wedge between the two. ever.”—Father Bowen in a lecture about the importance of the Christian intellectual tradition. (via johncunningham)
“You found something else. In that cell you found something that mattered more to you than life. It was when they threatened to kill you unless you gave them what they wanted… you told them you’d rather die. You faced your death, Evey. You were calm. You were still.”—V for Vendetta
Glory be to God for dappled things— For skies of couple-colour as a brinded cow; For rose-moles all in stipple upon trout that swim; Fresh-firecoal chestnut-falls; finches’ wings; Landscape plotted and pieced—fold, fallow, and plough; And áll trádes, their gear and tackle and trim.
All things counter, original, spare, strange; Whatever is fickle, freckled (who knows how?) With swift, slow; sweet, sour; adazzle, dim; He fathers-forth whose beauty is past change: Praise him.