Threads

How can I explain? 

I feel like I’m holding 100 threads in my hand. Holding them so tight. I must not let them tangle. I can’t let any of them go, because by holding them I’m keeping them from harm.

I’m keeping them from falling apart.

I am holding them together. 

But they’re delicate as spiderwebs, and I can’t pull too hard or they will break, they will blow away in the wind, and I will be left behind with no one to blame but myself.

He is

 Holds my hand when he gets scared. Isn’t that incredible? Four years ago he did not exist, except in the knowledge of our Creator. 

His passions include power drills, the woods, his little brother and sister, and excavators. He wants to be just like his dad, who can’t always say the same. 

The look in his eyes when he watches his dad work is so sweet, so fascinated, focused, adoring. He doesn’t yet know how God blessed him with the earthly dad he has. He doesn’t know a lot of things though, that’s the thing about being just three. 

He can’t tie his shoes or read a book quite yet. But he lets the dog out in the morning all by himself. He says sorry to his sister every single time his mom is actually trying to tell his sister to apologize to him she likes to bite). He sleeps in his big boy bed and uses the potty (almost) all by himself. He swings his brother and consoles him with a binkie when he cries. Sometimes he feels so guilty, he admits to ripping a page out of his book before his mom even realizes he’s done it. He is fearless and funny and wonderful. 

We try to model Christ as his parents. We fail quite often. But you can’t stop trying ‘till you’re dead, so hopefully each day we grow a little closer to who we’re supposed to be (detours aside). 

The look of love in his little eyes spurs me on. To be better, to do better, to learn. Because I’ve only got one shot at this.

I hope I make it count. 

Your Eyes

 

It was the look in your eyes. That’s what I remember the most. 

Your laughing, wrinkle-edged eyes had gone blank. 

But that’s not quite right. They weren’t blank - blank eyes would have been a mercy, blank eyes might have had an explanation I could swallow, blank eyes would have been a question mark. 

No, your eyes were not blank, they were dark. Cold. You looked at me and I swear I saw something like hatred. They were not a question mark at all. They were a period after a short, harsh sentence.

And the sentence scared me. Most of all because I couldn’t quite interpret it. 

What were you saying with that look? I’m not reading into it, I know that. It was not in my head. You were not simply overtired, having a bad day. 

No.

You were angry with me. You were  challenging me. But why? And why were you doing this when I was alone?

Except I wasn’t alone, of course. There was a room full of people, with their eyes on both of us, a room full of people witnessing the anger in your eyes. Could they see the anger in your eyes? Maybe not. Maybe that anger was just for me. My own personal torment. A Dante-style punishment for the sins you saw in me. 

And maybe that’s the problem. The reason that your final look of hatred hurt so badly.

Because deep down, I knew. In the stillness of my heart, I heard that short, cruel sentence, punctuated by the dark in your eyes.

To remember every scar

 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.

White Marble

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.

A snapshot

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. 

Dry Grass

 

I knew this girl who loved a boy. They were so in love; they were going to get engaged (he told me).

But when he was away, she spent all her time with someone else. Another guy. Our group of friends started talking about how she must be cheating on her boyfriend. One girl remarked (astutely I think) that if she was not cheating on her boyfriend physically, she certainly was emotionally – in her mind. My heart went out to her, she was my friend after all. I knew she wasn’t that sort of girl, and to have sparked so much controversy and slander must’ve been an unintended mistake.

So I went to her. 

One sunny afternoon by the lake, I caught her out reading and took a seat beside her in the dry grass. I stilled my racing heart (confrontation, though a trademark of my personality, often makes me physically sick) and began as disarmingly as possible. I softly explained what people were saying and told her I knew she meant no harm. I told her I would want someone to come to me, so I knew she would want the same. Then, after a brief hesitation, I gently added that sometimes perception is reality and for all our friends… she was not painting a good picture.

She didn’t say much, but I felt better having told her.

I felt loyal.

Later that day, the boy she had been spending so much time with came to me. Instantly, I was reminded that he was not a boy. The girls all talked about how much he worked out, what a hunk he was. But when I observed his body that day it was not to admire how attractive it was, it was not to appreciate the structure of his muscles and sinews, but rather to fear the bulk of him.

I had just entered a dimly lit foyer when he approached me, no one was around. He backed me into a literal corner. I tried to step out of his way, but he just turned on me instead of passing. He told me I had no business partaking in gossip and telling her to stay away from him. He told me they were doing nothing wrong in the eyes of God or man. His red face quoted scripture to me – all I saw were the veins pulsing on his neck.  

The condescending tone in his voice accompanied a veiled rage and I am ashamed to say I felt weak. Literally, physically, weak in the knees and sweaty in my palms. I told him okay. I probably said okay five or six times. At every pause in the conversation, just “okay, okay, okay.”

You know how when you’re working the cash register at a shady gas station, they tell you the money in the drawer isn’t worth your life, and to always just do whatever the man with the gun tells you to do? Just be agreeable and get out alive?

Finally, he said his fill and stalked away, vindicated. It was the first time I had ever felt… Assaulted is the wrong word because of the weight it carries. But my mind comes up empty when I try to name this small, weak, helpless feeling.  All I can do is hope my sisters and my daughters never feel it.