I watch the humidity meet the glass of each window in the house and I watch the condensation collect in a circle and then run in streams down the glass.
I brave the heat for minutes at a time and I sweep the porch and wipe the cobwebs from the bricks and then pause to wonder why I bother.
I rock a baby and fix meals and then rock a baby again. I help a small one change her panties. Twice.
I swat britches and braid hair and wipe the floor and I watch the rain dot the sidewalk in front of our house.
And I linger here and then run from this space, only to come back again. Writing is very much about sitting and waiting and I’m not so good with the sitting or the waiting.
I serve lunch to the man who loves to drop in at a moment’s notice and whirl more chaos into my day and I sit and sip Diet Coke and watch him eat. Twice.
He smiles at me from across the table and I smile back at him and we share a moment across the pine planks and the air between us heats to a simmer.
It’s nice, this simmer across the table in the middle of the afternoon, and I’ve missed it.
I’ve missed him.
He laughs at me and I watch him cut through bits of provolone and artichoke hearts and for a moment, I remember that he is the same man I fell in love with on a bench in Greensboro, NC. He’s not a church planter or a warehouse manager or the father of our small tribe; he is just a man.
And I love him.
I soak up his every move and I watch the clock and I count the minutes of his lunch hour. The minutes slip through our fingers and our eyes find one another and it’s just time that rests between us.
He stands to leave and I stand to tend to the house full of children.
We both stand, as man and woman, and I take hold of his arm and lean into his chest. I let our small tribe run circles in our space and I’m encircled in this thing called marriage…
This thing called intimacy.
And the deep places in my heart beat wildly in time with God’s heart for marriage and it’s good.