(Shared at Jody’s Memorial on 9/19/25)
You can be sure the hand will pull you from the ground.
You can be sure.
No matter how longingly the earth presses against you, no matter how sweet the mineral sips at the tips of your roots.
No matter how comfortable your solemn unchanging days, when you are ripe, you will be taken.
In this slumbering time, in this tiny dark cradle, you cannot imagine sky or the clouds splattering the surface above, or even the green lace of your own intricate leaves.
When the hand comes, may your flesh be sweet in surrender.
When the soil falls away from your snapping roots, may you slide easily into the light.
When you lay naked in the basket, may the hand rub the last soil from your skin and carry you singing and fresh straight to the mouth of God.