I close my eyes and breathe the fall air coming into my window. I am thankful for two lives: one that is two days over 25 years, one that was one seat belt away from last breath. I can't decide how much thought to give to possibility that last night was so close to my worst nightmare. I am grateful for the sturdiness of a Honda CRV and to the faithfulness of our God. But in an exasperated moment I can't help but say, He can't ever get a break.
I watch him moving, walking. No one will know he has slept two hours last night (or this morning, rather), or that he has been so, so tired. He buttons up his shirt, he ties a firm knot in his tie. He is sharp, he is gentle, he is strong. I watch his steps, grateful that he is alive. I love his resilience - that in our past five years together, I have seen him pick himself up over and over again. From failure, from the unexpected, from trauma, from relationships. Does he know not everyone can do this? He sighs, closes his eyes, breathes, gathers up whatever it is sitting around inside of him, and moves forward. Even on two hours of sleep.
We were going to celebrate my birthday. A little nagging thought imagines how horrible that second day of 25 could have been if things went different last night. Today we'll celebrate life, two lives, two lives intertwined and woven and grateful. These past two weeks, I've loved you as I've stayed up later than my bedtime to keep you company while you work through assignments. Last night, I stayed up to stay close to you on a couch in your friend's home. You poked me as I made references to the movie we were supposed to watch together today, irreverently humorous in a night that went horribly wrong. I told you to count prime numbers to get your mind to slow down.
You'll make it - you always do, it seems. You'll replay scenes and memories, I'll piece together imagination from your descriptions. We'll be okay.
I thought I saw a light shine.
No comments:
Post a Comment