The Cross

When I visited Austria a few years ago I bought a cross at one of the most beautiful gothic churches I visited (there were many – I was searching). It resonated with my soul, the garish art captured the storms raging inside my heart. I identified with lost souls from generations ago. I spent a few hours there contemplating and praying about my life. It was quite a mess at that stage, I was lost in a story I wanted to rewrite. There was too much drama and pain. I left that church with a sense of complete peace that God had a plan for my life, that if I just kept walking it would unfold as it was meant to be. That cross became more than a souvenir to me. I wore it the day I stood in the court for the end of my marriage, the day I had to testify for a restraining order against a bad decision and the day I said goodbye to the closest I had to a sister in this life. I wore it whenever life tilted towards the overwhelming and on any of the numerous anniversaries of loss. Earlier this year I wore it on the tenth anniversary of my wedding day and when I wanted to take it off at night, I realised I was wearing only the chain. The cross was gone. For a few days I was very sad, I even contemplated asking a friend in Austria to post another one. But I realised that there was a lesson in there, particularly for someone who is so sentimental and collects memories in things. (I have love letters from when I was eight, my school books from Grade 1.) The memories are not there, nor the love, nor the strength to continue. It was as if God was saying, lay it down, let it go.

It is done.
And for the first time
It was.

copyright Hiraeth 2016

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