It is my heart that limps now. But I hold on. And the blessing always comes.
I have been trying to find the mother-words. Love tries to break through, but she comes in stops and starts…gulps and sighs.
I remember her hands and how she was my world. There is still the smell of her at night when she leaned her head against the bunk bed to pray. For so long, the good things have been hidden.
Time is giving these things back to me.
I rejoice in restoration, though there are still tears in its veneer. I remember the words of Scott Cairns and the father he quotes in The End of Suffering…one of my favorite books from 2010.
He says the wound is the blessing.
I have carried my wound and I feel it. The blessing.
Like Jacob, you must hold on to Him. And like Jacob, you will be wounded. Like Jacob, you must say, ‘I will not let You go unless you bless me,’ and then the wound, the tender hip thereafter, the blessing…when you plead to know He is here, and when He answers you, and helps you to meet Him here, you will be wounded by that meeting. The wound will help you know, and that is the blessing.
At night I dream of the past—the early days when my heart was whole. There is the crunch of leaves under foot and her laughter. We would walk to the bridge down that dusty road. How she would sing to us.
Her sighs took her so far away.
I walk to the bridge with my boys. Sometimes I sigh too. And when I laugh, I hear a thread of her voice. A woman who is alive sometimes wanders. The doors to the secrets of her heart are all closed now.
And it doesn’t matter. It doesn’t matter at all.