There is a heartbeat that forms the plumblines of history, where kindness is the motivation behind every little moment forged.
The thumping sound of airport doors as loved ones return to their long-awaited homecoming. It’s the clarifying cry that heals a mother’s pain from the tearing wrath of childbirth.
The sound that mindlessly escapes as a father cheers his son across a finishing line or a star shoots across the sky. The steam from a teacup that rises early in the morning as dawn promises the possibility of a new day. An echo repeats the lingering song after a precious one’s wake.
It also marks the hunger and desire that holds us eternally captivated by the promise and fulfilment of that yet unresolved. The innocence of school notes scribbled with inconsistent poetry and the taste of freshly robbed honey from a hive. A long moment of silence that builds connection in places long forgotten or a hug that speaks volumes amid a storm.
The feeling rises from one’s soul from the smell of a home-cooked meal placed carefully at the door. An unexpected gift that meets a need, raw and waiting—the rebuilding of a temple torn apart by the promise of restoration.
It’s the chair that sits empty after the passing of age, mire and care. The flashing signal of a message left just “checking you are okay?”
We see this plumbline seeking out its weighted reminder across seasons, pandemics, wars, and moments of victory with our eyes wide open and holding tight to convictions and captivating the heart of one’s longing.
A simple head-nodding across pathways as neighbours walk to the local shops. A bin forgotten on the curbside dragged back to its usual spot.
Writers listen for its whistle.
Children are safe within its arms.
Courage is fortified through its forgiveness.
It is the whispered knowing that concludes with a liturgy that repeats.
“I am loved.”
“I am loved.”
“I am loved.”
*1 Corinthians 16: 14.
