Disappearance

The Christmas lights burn bright across the street, but the clootie tree is almost barren of clooties. There remains some faded purple yarn and a mossy rag. 

Where are the bright medals? A woman on her way to the cathedral proudly told me that she had taken them. I was so dumbfounded that I couldn't open my mouth to scold her for her foolish ignorance.

Where are the bright ribbons of cloth with the names of those I would pray for? Lopped off, along with their branches, by the city tree-trimmers.

I remember the old church in St. Albans, on my first visit to England. A thousand years old, with windows removed and no furniture, no altar, no candles. Bare and abandoned-looking. But prayer was there . . . a thousand years of it that, ignorant as I was of such things, I could sense. 

This memory comforts me, reminding me that the prayers that decorated the clootie tree, along with medals and ribbons and yarn, are still present, still humming their petitions and thanksgivings in the rain, under the moon, in all seasons and times. God is still listening to my clootie prayers, and I am full of hope as I watch and wait. 

Thanks be to God who continues to see the clooties and hear the prayers.

Extra: The night is dark, the light is within.