My heart broke heavy this week.
Not the kind of shattering and eye-squinting jolting and in pieces smashing on the floor.
but the kind of breaking that cracks and splinters quiet
steady and sore and lingering
falling by little by little pieces
for a few weeks now
crumbling and soft to the ground.
I knew it was coming and still I was not
quite prepared.
Slow breaking wandering next to hope.
What a gift that hope is.
How it keeps you moving and thinking and talking and praying and remembering
and looking into forward.
And then it happens. So slow-quick.
This life.
It makes me sit and think and pray- long and hard and humbled
about how
fleeting and vaporous
this earthly life is,
and I can be nothing but still.
And my house spins around me needing tidying and cooking,
and I sit still instead, while the littlest fingers find pages in a book
and kids play outside
and a butterfly hovers near my window.
And that tidying can wait.
I need to soak this in:::
And it’s this:::
this life:::
How I live alongside others that I love
and how I invest in a legacy for those I love that has
{not one thing}
to do with the success of checking off items on a notepad.
But
{everything}
to do with how I spend my God-grace-given time here,
while He gives me breath,
to love those near me.
And that’s how I remember her.
How she showed me love
and an open home and
an open table and
an open ear and
an open heart.
Love.
How this life is about {that}.
Love like love is meant to be shown.
Love that overlooked my mistakes,
love that was generous and kind,
love that was stern and honest when it needed to be,
love that endured seasons of pain and tragedy,
love that was simply happy on a lake in the woods with a fishing pole and a sunset.
How my fourteen year- old self was awkward and unsure and how she encouraged me.
How she brought a birthday cake to an icy lake on a sunny day in February.
How she introduced me to hot chocolate mixed with coffee on a subzero morning.
How she {loved me enough} to tell me I was wrong.
How she {loved me enough} to celebrate with me.
How she gave my little girl a doll that she still loves.
How flowers made her happy, too.
How she had sons that I love and count as friends for my life.
How she gave me grace and gave me time to make it right.
How she, whether I was 15 years old or 35 years old, didn’t seem to mind that we stayed at her house too long and laughed too much.
How we’d all go fishing on a Summer night on a dirt road and how it made some of my best memories.
and
How her smile comforted me.
and
How, this time, she smiled longer than she could
and
how she reached out to play with my baby when I know she was tired and hurting and aching and
How she
let me kiss her cheek
and how she
still
took time to invite me in and stay a little while.
That’s the kind of love
that lives long
and sweet
and remembered.
Rejoice with those who rejoice; weep with those who weep. +Romans 12:15
smelling:the:feathers 