by Jillian Partridge
Home. If home had a face, it would not be this. It would not be the dark, twisting oaks or the snow covered rolling hills. Why then do I feel safe?
Maybe the sunset comforts me; maybe the mockingbird song is a morning lullaby.
I wrestle with my thoughts in a silent prayer. Stay calm Julia I tell myself. Keep faith.
Kicking out the remains of the fire I reach for my backpack. No food, no water, no hope in this deserted land. No hope except for the Lord who has not failed me yet.
The sun reaches through the trees to point my way. A narrow horse trail snakes west out of the forest.
As my feet hit the dirt path the pounding became a chant. Lost. Lost. Lost. You are. Lost.
“The Lord will never leave me nor forsake me,” I said through gritted teeth.
The chant stopped, momentarily subdued.
Sighing, I continued to hike steadily and hoped to be somewhere safe by night fall.
The trees thinned and disappeared and a small market town appeared over the hill. 5 kilometers away and counting I heard the music and smiled. It was a wedding.
I approached cautiously, buying only an apple from a smiling vender.
“And who are you, child?” the plump balding man asked good-naturedly.
“I am nothing less than one with a bright future and a dark past.”