The worst thing he told me?
The worst thing he told me was that I wasn’t the hero. I am not some main character, and this isn’t some epic tale.
There are no battles to win, no dragons to slay. There is not point to it all, at the end of the day.
And worse? He made me believe him.
Two boys stand at a fresh gravestone. Hands in pockets and no coats on a chilly morning.
Shifting uncomfortably from foot to foot, looking to each other, oblivious to my presence and the passing cars.
Their shirts are loose around their boyish shoulders, their wavy brown hair is the same shade as each other’s, same shade as their father’s.
I want to take them home and feed them. Give them clean sheets around a warm bed and tell them they’re not alone. I can only hope they have a mother who will.
Coy glances from little eyes while he finds trouble to get in and out of.
Good morning and Goodnight and I love you - three phrases repeated so often they almost lose their meaning. Almost.
A strong hand, open, and reaching out to hold mine.
A tiny hand with little fingers, patting my arm while I nurse his little sister.
Heaven growing sweeter with each addition - how could I have thought I would get bored with eternity? I could spend forever just sitting in communion with these people, with my Savior.
Oh yeah! Aw, man. Okay. He go (here you go). Dees dees (please). Uh you (love you). And all of his little words and phrases.
Redundantly, a thousand more “I love you’s” - over and over and over so they never doubt that I do.
