Leave What is Dead

Dear Heavenly Father,

It was one of the coldest days of the year to take a walk down by the river. I had to prepare myself for the -13-degree temperatures. I covered my feet with two pairs of wool socks and tucked them into fur-lined boots. I layered up with thermals, a fleece sweater, and my warmest down jacket. I put hand warmers in my gloves, then covered my head and ears with a knit beanie.

As I prepared, I thought not only about the written prayer I would bring with me on my walk, but the collective prayers I’ve written over recent months. I wondered why I’ve felt the need to write these prayers outside of my usual routine of private personal prayer. Perhaps like the preparations I took to protect myself from the cold, these prayers are preparing me for what is next or protecting me from what is next.

The river was completely frozen with a layer of snow covering its movement. I only knew I was at the river’s edge because the tree line ended. I knelt with my prayer. I asked, “Is there something or somewhere I am supposed to leave?” I could see my house in the distance, standing on the bluff, safe from the riverbed. I had left there and its warmth to be with you.

I dug a hole in the snow. I lay my written prayer face down in it. I then filled the hole back up with the snow I had displaced, burying my words. I stood and, as I walked away, heard the words, “Leave what is dead.”

Father, why is everything you say so cryptic? What is dead? Is there something dead in me? It seems like every time I get an answer, it comes with ten more questions.

I already let go. Remember my hike and my last amen to the things I’ve held? So, what is the difference between letting go and leaving what is dead? Are there things I’m trying keep alive that have passed? Old identities? Now I’m reminded of the question that started these written prayers: What does it mean to be a woman in your eyes? The answer to that would be the divine identity.

Like the frozen river, the answers are there, moving, rushing under the surface. I can hear them as that movement cracks the ice, sending an echo into the distance. I turn my eyes and look for where the sound came from. I hear your voice. It breaks through the silence in sudden bursts of communion, but the river whole is not a place that I can know. Even so, I recognize the privilege it is to have this winter to grow.

I’m planning a funeral for the things that are dead and ask if you’ll attend your reverence there.

Your Daughter Sincerely,

Emily

Amen.