He’s at the dining room table this evening, reading glasses on, feet in brown slippers, his fingers poised to put meat on the bones of his sermon.
This is the part of my life, my calling as his wife, that makes me hold my breath and then exhale prayer.
He rubs his head and slowly turns pages and I hear the swift clicking of the keys.
This sermon writing takes time and the late evening hours are precious. Sunday is always coming.
Tonight, we talked about life and choices and how old we feel. For a fleeting moment, I’d love to be 30 again.
I’m wrapped in a throw and I watch the news and I wonder if the whole world is crazy. The whole world, not just the red, white, and blue part that I am blessed to live in. It’s war, rumors of war, abuse, neglect, murder, betrayal, and petitions.
I catch a glimpse of his hands rubbing his head and I know the words he wrestles with are the only words that can screw our heads on right. They’re the only words that can chase fear and right the world and save us from ourselves.
He holds his head and hides those holy words in his heart and I pray they spill out on souls soft enough to hear.
And may I hide these words in my own heart and continually ask Jesus to save me from myself.