Breath

Breath

Running through the sunny park. Climbing up the ladder to the metal slide

we glide down, one towhead behind the other. Then off we go, my brother and I,

from slide to swings to merry-go-round. Finally, we have to stop.

We laugh and try to catch our breath.

Riding bicycles with my eight-year-old best friend.

Snaking through sidewalks of the university in our town.

It’s a race. She wins.

We laugh and try to catch our breath.

In the pool. Practice, practice. I must swim the entire length under water.

(My self-imposed challenge) It’s a long pool.

Finally, I make it. Unbelievable! I hang on to the rough edge with both hands.

I smile with pride and try to catch my breath.

Is he going to say it? Will tonight be the night the words are spoken?

His eyes look so deeply into mine. I wait.

“I love you,” he says.

I’m surprised to realize I’m holding my breath.  

“Breathe! Pant! Pant!” The nurse doesn’t mean to yell.

But I’m not paying attention. It hurts too much to breathe.

“Breathe!”

I try but can’t. I wait until the contraction is over.

Then I cry and try to catch my breath.

Finally, a tiny voice cries out.

A very first breath of a brand, new life.

I dance. I dance in the seminary chapel. I dance in the sanctuary.

I teach girls to dance. Eight of them.

They dance to hymns and psalms and spiritual songs.

I name them Ruach. Breath of God.

Wordlessly they lift their arms to heaven.

Silently they twirl and link arms and bow down in honor.

When the dance is finished, the sanctuary feels a fresh holiness.

The dancers quietly catch their breath. So does the congregation.

Grandpa can’t breathe. He has congestive heart failure.

He sleeps sitting up in a chair.

He doesn’t talk much, but still smiles.

One day, he doesn’t talk at all. He doesn’t smile.

He breathes his last, labored breath.

He’s been healed into eternal life.

We all try to catch our breath, but tears chase breath away.

Over the years, I walk into hospital rooms.

I walk into nursing homes.

People I love and pastor have oxygen tubes in nostrils.

They have oxygen masks covering half their face.

If they have the energy, they smile with their eyes.

Or cry.

They try so hard to catch their fleeting breath.

I walk into ICU rooms.

Eyes are closed. Hands and feet are still. Machines hum.

Fluorescent green numbers on a small screen flash up, then down, then up again.

A ventilator pumps in a precise and unchanging rhythm. In…out…in…out…

Forced breath. Fake breath. Life-saving breath.

In March 2020, our country waits. We hold our breath.

Something invisible and unmanageable seeks to take our breath away.

It wishes to creep and seep through nostrils, eyes, mouth.

It is the Breath Thief.

It’s enough to take our breath away even before it seizes our communities.

In the midst of confusion and misinformation I choose to do this:

With each breath I will be thankful for the mercies I see around me.

With each breath I will pray for loved ones. I will pray for strangers.

With each breath I will hold on to the God who loves me. The God who loves you.

With each breath I will seek to be a woman of action, not a woman of fear.

With each breath I will take in the reality and prepare for the outcome.

With each breath I will think beyond myself and remember others.

With each breath I will have courage and strive to be kind.

I might even dance, so I can remember how to catch my breath again.

Because I know this certain thing: Each breath is a gift from God. Ruach.

May God’s breath fill your soul with peace and lighten your spirit. Amen.