Hesitating in the Exodus
There are no safe saints
these prophets, priests, and peasants
wrenched from the dry shod of spiritual freedom
drowning in a bloody baptism of the martyrs' passion;
Saints bearing aloft the promise of those down under,
newly crowding the cloud of witnesses,
swelling the mysterious mass
until a windswept rain is pouring
upon the many mourning
mingling tears of heaven and earth,
soaking a once dry and crusted desert
to create a birthing ground for bread and blossom
(bread of justice, blossom of peace).
There are times I venture
from my own desert path
scanning a cloudless sky,
until I hear the mourning cries of the newly blossomed
And smell the ardour of broken bread
calling me to that promised land.
But there are no clear cut markers
for the path that these saints trod
like on my own road (to which I hurriedly return),
a path made safe by saints of ages past,
masked in my own desert clay,
with whom I find a safe communion.
And I take my rest unsatisfied;
Wondering who will save me
from this mirage of comfort and containment
if not these many mourning
if not the windswept rain.
Francie Wallace was a homemaker, storyteller, singer, and budding playwright when this article appeared. She lived with her husband and four children in Stone Mountain, Georgia.
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