The leather spine of my mother’s book, “Divine Promises,” is almost worn bare. Each page, I know by the number typed in the corner, is still there, yet very few are attached. It is as fragile as it is beautiful, (perhaps that is the way of all promise), and it fits into the palm of my hand. Touching it, I can feel hers — her hands that searched for the meaning, longing for the promises to come true, daring them to come true, between her folded palms.
As I run my thumb up the split, I know the pain she endured. I can name every crack. But somehow the heart held — her heart held. Her heart that clung to the promise. Her heart that allowed her to get beyond the wear, and find the joy, the laughter. And that’s what I feel when I hold it now, this exquisite joy. And it is nothing short of divine.
We have not been promised “joy without sorrow.” I read this, feel this, daily. But joy, nonetheless. Beautiful, worn, spine cracking joy. It is barely more than the air that I breathe, but just as valuable, and I carry it with me.
