The Lion Who Roared
Part 1
Martha The neck of the Washburn warms and mellows in my hands as I strum the notes into submission. I look at them curiously because they cannot be my own. I have held my papa’s guitar in these hands for six decades now. They have held babies, garden shovels and report cards. I’ve seen them give away a daughter in marriage and eventually the car keys when it came time to give that up, too. Yes, my hands have become my mother’s; lined and a little plump. Eventually, a tune works its way out of the shadowed hall of my imaginings and how sweet the sound that fills the cosy living room of our shared apartment. I look over at Max, snoring loudly on the sofa and give thanks that he is only a dog. A sturdy mug of chai tea rests next to my grilled cheese on rye, and I stop for a moment to thank God. Yes, His grace is amazing when I think of the roads I have travelled with and without Him as my Saviour. I love this little nest where I have ended up. I may live by myself, but I am not truly alone. I have a whole family of people I have adopted into my heart. They don’t know it, but I was sent here to watch over our little building on the south end of town near the river. I can hear one of them singing now. Blessed child.
