Andrea Sanborn

I remember him, waiting here in the still whiteness of winter. I remember the first time he came to me, and the last. I remember the celebrations, and the long walks in silence.

I remember, in the bread and the cup. In the songs and the worn pages, marked. In the breeze, in the warm weight of my babies, in the first breath of morning, I remember.

He too remembers me; in the marks on his hands I am held as precious. He is a God who stores tears and intentions and the daily giving over.
Perhaps a day will come when I don’t remember dear faces and names, but even then I hope my soul will remember whose I am, a sense beyond word or thought, of hope and home. 

And if not, He will remember me, and that is enough.