Tearing and mending is the best way to describe death and loss and I’m learning we can’t really put life back together again until we’ve faced the coming apart.
As I wandered from room to room, feeling the cool breeze on my skin, I realized marriage sometimes feels like this house. Familiar, comfortable, yet tight and wholly uncomfortable. And the very idea of opening a door to my husband feels like a vulnerable and risky move. Keeping the storm windows shut feels like a much safer venture. Especially after a fight or misunderstanding or hurt feelings. Keeping everything sealed feels much softer. During times of conflict our hearts close up, it curls itself into a tight ball. A closed heart is stuffed with selfishness, faulty assumptions, and judgement.
The setting sun refracted light off the water like thousands of broken mirrors. There I stood and took in the view, including the angry pink of Chris’ surgery scar, and I felt a gentle leaning into my soul. It was God and he was whispering. “It’s okay Heather. You do not have to be afraid anymore. It’s okay to let go. I’ve got this moment. I’ve got him and I have you.”
Boldness has taken an interesting turn since childhood. As a girl growing up in the desert, being bold meant facing off with the rivers of flash floods. Or when I was in seventh grade, I punched a boy in the face for picking on my brother. I’m finding I’m not the same girl in…
If my life before had been comfortable like a one room school house, it was now transformed into a classroom of the world. If I were to dig through the files of your life, I’m certain to find a defining life change of your own.
And now you’re life is standing in the mess of day seven. Whether you’re ready or not, here comes trial inducing change. And the desperate question of why. How can I make room for change when I didn’t want it in the first place. How can I live my life well when it fills foreign spiritual white space. A blank canvas.
I feel it most when sand runs through my fingers and the water rushes to the shore only to run back out again. I breathe deep and let the words run through me to form sentences which frame stories. It untethers my word-weaving-soul. I open my eyes and think how God must’ve felt the same…