Moonsong Glacier worship

he left the island, only for a moment.

and was greeted with a freeze. a few days of rising warmth had been banished back by the clouds that scattered the skies. he was devastated by his findings.

ice, snow, slush. all of it was awful — but he need remind himself that every day was a blessing. every day was a part of a greater plan regardless of whatever weather greeted him.

but perhaps he only found sadness because he grew lonely. he grew nostalgic and melancholic.

he thought of his sons — @Abraham and jacob — back home and marred by a fresh tragedy.

he thought of dear dove, somewhere below the frozen earth and he hoped that their final moments together hadn't been in vain, that she had made it somewhere greater.

oh, Heavenly Father, he exhaled, shoulders sagged beneath the weight of his thoughts. lend me your strength and guidance for another day.

In the days before his mother’s final passing, he thought,

Lord, if it is your will, let her go painlessly and quickly.

But it was not His will. Perhaps recognizing the wellspring of selfishness from where his prayer drew its water, Dove’s decline was slow and awful.

His father had said the last rites. They had buried her and spent all day digging through the soil, hardened by frost. His feet had cracked and bled. He had said, off-hand, “When the disciples went to check on Mary’s grave after she died, they only found flower petals.”

When he saw his father on that early winter morning, he felt as miserable as the weather.

Dad, he whispered. Then, louder, Dad.

Back to being a child again, in those crucial seconds. When had his father gotten so thin, so tired?

"dad,"

it whispered on the wind at the end of his prayer, it rippled the wisps of his ears.

"dad,"

louder, real, tangible. bartholomew was not a fool. this was not the voice of God reminding him of the things that gave him strength.

this was the voice of abraham.

here.

here.

his head lifted from its hanging position, whipped to put eagle eyes on none other than his boy. here in the flesh. unmistakable.

bartholomew had taken good care to not play favorites with the twins, but seeing only one of them here? well...perhaps it placed abraham higher in his heart. higher in his eyes and it would show. a layer of pride shining through his tired gaze.

abraham, he breathed finally. oh, abe,

you have come so far from home, and you are here — by the grace of God.

His voice was jovial, grating through a smile that teetered on a grimace.

Are you happy with yourself?

The words scraped his throat on their way out. On every level he knew it was an unfair, cruel question, and he hated himself for speaking it into existence.

Back home his father had always strived to turn the other cheek, so that every confrontation was another excuse to step deeper into his self-imposed personal misery. But being so far from home infused the air with wild possibility. In the repetition of domestic life they were father and son - what were they now? He saw the faint glimmer of pride in his eyes and was struck with hate and love for this man, a man who he once had regarded with nothing short of devotion.

his own son.

independence must have shed the light of order off of him, but bartholomew would not break it back into him. he had never been a hammering male.

he was a scalpel. delicate, precise. making openings to let that light back in.

i am,

the truth, even in his ragged state.

i have taught many, i have spread the word, i have helped others with their strife and grief.

his eyes did not pull off of his son. a near man now, their time as a youth never seemed long enough.

the silence in the air lingered.

are you happy with yourself?

I have helped others with their strife and grief.

He wanted to ask, how about me? but it sounded far too pathetic even inside the safety of his head.

God.

He shuffled mindlessly through a deck of other pointless sentences, running over each other like rabid crowds of spectators over baseball game turnstiles: I shouldn't have— I didn't want to— I—

In the end he settled on, I don't know how you do it, his face subdued with rage, envy, awe.

Mom worried about you, up until the very end.

His father had never raised his voice in anger, but it was just one more thing that complicated Abe's view of him. At times, it looked almost noble; other times, it looked like an unbearable admission of weakness.

God.

in vain? in a prayer?

perhaps it was a correction. a correction to the fact that it was not bartholomew who had helped them, but it had been God. he liked to think abe was that attentive, that devout.

then he spoke of his mother.

if bartholomew's heart could have been heard, it would have been the soft sound of a cracking stone. the start of something crumbling away.

her love knew no bounds. knows, i should say. even now she looks down and smiles upon us.

she had loved her boys, so fiercely, hadn't she?

through all of their personal strife, he had at least given her two things to cherish.

do you plan to stay with me, abe?

or had he come just to see what missionary work did to a man?

Sorry for the wait!

Knew, knows. His heart tightened with grief.

Yes. I want to stay, he said, voice barely above a whisper. The coldness of it all spread up his veins to his throat, constricting the fine muscles. The tears did not come; his tense face did not break.

He hated himself for many things but his newest crime was simply resorting to tired methods of cruelty and pettiness. To talk about mom, Dove - to simply mention her! - it seemed like a taunt, something as base as kicking a fallen man in the side.

So he was the one to step forward first, breaking the interminable distance between them, his narrow head the sharp hull of an icebreaker.

He would lean against Bartholomew's shoulder, if he didn't move away.

the petty behaviors of abe had not been lost on him, but he was a man molded to forgive. especially his own sons.

when the boy returned to his side, he silently prayed the reunion would bring the love of God back deeper into abe's heart. the young man needed it. he needed to know love better than what bartholomew could show while they both healed.

come, he whispered softly, bony shoulders against one another. i have found an island. there is plenty on it, i believe it will be an important place, come spring — when the land is reborn.