Psalm of The Name
She stands solemnly, muscled arms crossed, gazing into the distant evening’s clouds.
Her back straight, this time in a waffled navy thermal, standing atop a nondescript hill.
We recognize her at once. Once you have met her, you always know.
It’s a feeling she gives off — a solidity that seems rooted to the very Rock.
As if the earth itself were small compared to what she stood upon.
She has a gravitas, the steady pull that draws you in, even when not speaking.
Perhaps it is owing to her somewhat mysterious nature coupled with her raw humanity.
Instantly we notice she is not as we have seen her before.
Her shoulders are shaking, vulnerable in a way unseen by us.
She is weeping and talking to the storm as if it were a person.
“I am lonely, Father. You are enough for me. Yes, You know this.”
She pauses, nodding, gesticulating animatedly, as if having a two-sided conversation.
“I long to share that which You have blessed me to hold.”
She turns to us then, face broken in soul-deep anguish — ugly crying beautifully beneath that dignified ashen top.
Making eye contact, her hazel orbs blaze with an inner amber glow lining the iris.
“Good, you have come. Just in time, it would seem.”
She motions to a pillow we could have sworn was not there a moment ago.
“Pray in the Name above all Names — Yeshua specifically. Invoke that Name.”
She gestures again as we sit on the cushion, surprised how comfortable it is.
Perhaps heaven has the best memory foam?
Puzzled, we ask,
“Why specifically that Name? Why not Jesus?”
She shakes her head, speaking softly:
“Just try it one time. See the power revealed. Then you decide.”
Brazenly, perhaps, we offer,
“You were crying?”
Our own face softens in empathy.
Then, with that characteristic enigma, she chuckles — so softly we are not even sure what we heard.
“Just a light momentary affliction. Here a moment, gone the next.”
She says it as deflection, while she and the hill begin to seem to liquefy — softly at the edges at first, then more swiftly toward the center.
The last sight — her glowing, hazel, haloed eyes weeping golden tears, her inner fullness taking form as molten gold.
“Liar” we mutter to no one in particular when we realize the depths of sleep beckon once more, noting before nodding off, she never did answer the question.”