“How are you feeling about things? Any other thoughts this morning?” he asks, like every day before.
“The same”, I say. “It’s tough and painful and I really hate it, but it’s the right thing to do.”
He slips into his shirt and it’s still dark outside when he leaves for the warehouse. He won’t be home until after dark tonight.
I make coffee and turn on lights and go from window to window to wait for the sun to fill these spaces.
After 31 Days of hard wrestling with the Lord and 30 Days of holding both hands and one heart open, my soul is still and quiet.
My soul waits, but my hands and feet, well, they keep moving.
My hands, no longer holding tight to what the Lord has seen fit to take away, are now free to move swiftly to take hold of what the Lord is giving me now.
My feet, no longer set to run back home, are now free to walk into the place that the Lord is giving us.
Frames of the last 18 months, flash in my mind, and then I remember the man in his plaid shirt and work boots. The one who has been kind and gentle and patient and longsuffering with his wife who has just wanted to be anywhere but here in this place where the Lord has surely removed His hand.
He has been unwavering.
He heard the Lord speak and he has been walking in those words, even when he couldn’t see what the Lord had in store.
Ann Voskamp says it like this (and why change it, when it’s more beautiful in her voice?):
Sometimes you don’t know you’re taking the first step through a door–until you’re already inside. And no matter what room you step into–every space holds the possibility of this profound joy and deep pain and the two always mingle together.
So I keep walking through doors, and take the pain with the joy, and try to keep both palms open to receive and to give.
And I wait.
The sun fills these spaces and my eyes catch the moving hands of the clock in the school room and I mentally count down the hours till sundown.