Nights are the hardest. The bright and brilliant sun—long a healing companion of mine—has retired, and darkness has set in. The moon is beautiful, yes….yet, somehow I do not feel its kiss as kind upon my brow. Something is lacking in its milky glow—the warmth that envelops during the day, just can’t be recreated beneath this silky shadow.
Yes, it’s the nights, when the rhythm and flow of the day’s busyness has come to an end….and there, after that sweet, gentle sunset….that shrill, silent stillness lies in wait.
I make my dinner--lately there always seems too much of it…pleased with so little these days--my appetite is not what it once was. Sharing was always more my style—there was no waste with you. Something about giving you what was “mine”---made me smile—watching as you gratefully devoured my often eschewed dessert---something in the knowing that I had saved the sweetest part--for you. I—with such joy—gave you my best—my portion~
I can’t quite remember what filled the nights so well—we never were really complicated people. Simple things—I suppose—hearing about the day—reveling in triumphs—encouraging in disappointments---laughing at others’ ridiculousness (and most often at our own)—listening to the waves break as life ebbed and flowed about us—softly and gently…we passed the days.
I find myself still reaching for the phone—I want to hear about your day—cheer you on—remind you that are loved—that you are capable of all things good—and that I am here, and always will be. White knuckled, I clasp the receiver—and wait.
I am waiting---waiting for the right of way. Waiting for His blessing. Waiting for beauty and redemption of ravished bodies---hollowed out hearts---and healed hands that will reach for the righteousness of what could be—so perfect--so pure—and all the while—I have held the line---praying for my pardon. Because the heart wants what the heart wants….and love is no respecter of persons.
Yes. Nights are the hardest. I long to be held. And all the scriptures in the world can reassure me that I am right in the safety of His arms, but this Mary Magdalene mourns the comfort of care from another…crushed in the encompassing weight of human form—warm breath washing over me---and audible words of “eternal” assurance.
Mo(u)rning now. I wake with the sun---read the words from the Book that has brought me thus far—gaze at the font with my frail frame and finite eyes—assuring me—I AM His delight: My new portion, shared~
“The LORD thy God in the midst of thee is mighty; he will save, he will rejoice over thee with joy; he will rest in his love, he will joy over thee with singing.”