broken febuary

 

I remember that broken February when I read Augustine for the first time, and I knew that I would never believe in his pear tree, his mother or his faith.

His agonies of ecstasy, his fear and trembling joy, his surrender to whatever it was that called him.

How impossible his healing.

I re-read Augustine this week.

And I believed his broken heart. His betrayed body. His shaking faith.

How he learned to bow before a pear tree and beg for mercy.

The brokenness of that Febuary persists to this day.

Sometimes, I tremble: tell them that I do tremble, that I am not afraid to tremble.

Three years removed from that time, I bow before the pine trees that are here, ask for mercy.

I look for where the pear trees may be.

© 2016 Anna-Christina Betekhtin, All Rights Reserved.


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