My Siah and I were in the man cave.
He had his black helmet on.
He had turned on the choke by himself and pushed down on the starter the best he could.
I had come to try and help.
I know nothing about mini motorcycles and the way that they work.
All I know is that Papa knows everything about everything mechanical.
And when I can't get the thing to start up in the man cave, I hear myself start to say it,
"We'll just ask Papa when he gets..."
I couldn't finish my sentence.
I excused myself and walked around the corner, tears streaming down like a rushing river over my still blotchy cheeks.
The big things matter too, but it's the little things that drive the sting in deeper. It's not having him there to open that jar with the lid that's on to tight. It's the times he'd call just to hear your voice. It's the way he could start the grill and cook the chicken perfectly on those warm summer nights.
I didn't even know David all that well. I wish had had the opportunity to know him more. He's in the presence of the One who calls Himself LOVE now.
It's not him specifically that I keep loosing it over.
I just keep thinking about the man that I love more than I'm sure I should.
The man who can still come home this afternoon and help our son start the mini bike in the garage.
The man who can't stop touching me every time he sees me.
The man who sits by me at the farm table every night at 5pm.
The man who works hard and loves deep.
The man who offers grace when I'm least deserving.
The man that I love is still here, and I can still touch him. I can still hear his voice any time I want.
Last night in the dark, he prayed simply over me. He thanked the Lord for my tender messy-heart. He held my hand under the covers in our bed.
It's hard to accept that the ones that we love so dearly are not really ours to begin with. They were given to us that we might get a glimpse of the Oneness that our Savior created us to have with Himself.
The thing I know to do on these messy, pain-drenched days is to not be afraid of being broken too.
What's the point in pretending to be strong? Strong for what? "Strong" is an illusion anyway. Any strength we might have comes only from Christ anyways. Besides, didn't he say that it is the poor in Spirit who are the truly blessed ones? (Mathew 5)
I read the story of Gethsemane this morning. (Mark 14) It's a story that's always been hard for me to read. But today, it reminded me that He understands. He really, really, understands.
With the deepest agony a human heart can bear, He begged The Father,
"Abba, Father. Everything is possible for you. Take this cup from me? Yet not what I will, but what YOU will."
Even the Son of God trusted His Father to the point of death.
Maybe the best gift we can give each other in this broken world is a willingness to be broken together?
To walk along side?
To cry to?
To listen to the things that are missed most?
Maybe the best way we can love our Savior is to thank Him for the millions of little moments that He HAS given, even when He didn't have to give a single one.
It is better to have loved and lost, than to have never loved at all.
May I no longer hold back my gratitude for the way the Cowboy has loved me over the years? And when the Lord sees it fit to call him home, I can be confident that I loved my man with my whole heart to the glory of God.
All of a sudden all the little things that irritate don't seem to matter much anymore. When you're one with someone, you take the bad with the good. And you learn to love with every part of your being even if you know that someday you'll be asked to let it all go, to give it all back to the One who lent it to you in the first place.
I know my friend loved her man that way. She is one of the most selfless, giving, grateful, bold, courageous, kind, grace-giving women I know. Their Oneness exemplified the one thing that is important in this life... believing with our whole hearts that Jesus really loves us perfectly, and He proved it when He gave up His life for us.
I won't always be crying this hard, me in a ball on the rocking chair on our front porch.
There will be a day when there are no more tears.
Today I can't help but daydream about that day.
Today, my mom, my boys, and David are gazing upon the face of their sweet Savior, singing praises, and dumping out the jars of tears that they will never again have wear on their cheeks.
Come Lord Jesus, Come?
We need You so bad.