At the end of a perfectly rotten day, I sit in my chair and look at the one I love as he snoozes in his own corner of the room.
I watch him breathe, his eyes closed, fingers laced together over his chest, and he breathes out, real slow like.
I wonder what he’s breathing…what he’s thinking about under those heavy eyelids.
And I breathe, too.
I take him in, his dirty khakis and grease stained polo and I feel the weight of the life he wears on his clothes.
His hands are worn and weathered, each crease telling the story of Christ and the story of man, and I long to run my own fingers into every groove.
I long to feel what it’s like to walk a day in his shoes and a lifetime in his skin and a moment in the Christ He knows more than me.
I watch his chest rise and fall.
And I’ve walked with him, both in the rising and in the falling, and yet it’s been Christ that has carried us both.
In the quiet of the evening, I am laid low and given out and so very much in love with the man who wears the call of Christ all over his khakis and in the creases of his hands.
And so very much in love with the only Man who’d ever think to write the audacious story I am living.
To grace how great a debtor am I constrained to be…Bind my wandering heart to Thee…