A period of suspension begins in which I live in fear. Time moves slowly. When I close my eyes I see myself from above, walking alone along an endless shoreline of the sea. I walk there, yet leave no prints, the only animate figure under a proximate sky.
To fight this fear, I have only my will and the bright banner of my pride, those two grand props now such false and useless attributes. I claim no bit of land, not even an oarless boat in which to rest. I know myself no more and only authenticity of being saves me from despair.
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Hidden in the red cloak of my desperate desires, the voice of humility emerges to guide me. I have lived so long without faith; might I now call for hope as an abandoned child cries for food? ... Allow me to commit myself to hymns and scripts of tribute. A diary of starry nights filled with devotions carefully remembered at dawn.
Judge me not. Faith, you elusive charter, search for me within the Song of Solomon, as the lover seeks the Beloved in the garden of pomegranate trees.
Excerpt from "Hand of Faith," The Art of Surrender, Copyright © 2005 Becca Smith, All Rights Reserved
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