It had taken her a good while to decide that she really had wanted to meet, I found out later.
I thought she was just busy. And she was.
But there was more to the story than that.
The details I remember from a month ago: the cup of coffee on the counter, the warmth inside the apartment even though cool air had been blowing outside for at least a few hours after the sun had set, her tennis skirt and coral tank top, how I felt like we had been friends for much longer than 2 hours.
You released my tongue that night, to speak of things and in ways I hadn't spoken for in months. Of things I have been afraid of, uncertain of, tired of. In a fresh way, though it had the odd familiarity of deja vu about it.
I offered her Your love.
And I offered her my vulnerability. I trusted her to be gracious with me, I offered her the chance to give me her gift of acceptance. And she did.
Afterwards, I sat on the porch in the cool air, the feelings rising in my chest, and I let the tears fall. I felt so loved by You - so known and so cared for. I had been wondering if the cycle would ever be broken. I was tired of being too tired to do the thing that gave me energy.
I offered her Your love.
-
I had wondered if there would ever develop a relationship. If she would share all and if in six months I could change her life.
Soon I realized that what I was trying was not working. Was the barrier her, or was it me?
Three months later she fell, an accident. And that's what made her utter those simple words to me. "My mom passed away this time last year." "I haven't been completely here lately, a little bumbly." The deepest she'd ever gone with me before. Particularly so because she had been so embarrassed. "I was just walking. I wasn't even chewing gum, or anything," she laughed.
Staying with her at urgent care, we watched the clock, not because we were impatient to get home, but because we wanted to get her car out before they locked up. It became so easy to let time stop, without concerns for dinner plans.
And this week on Monday I told her that I had been thinking of her. We went to coffee Wednesday and she talked. Told me about her mom. Cried. I put my hand on her arm. Sat with her.
She told me it had been July 11, Friday this year. How did I know?
I brought her a flower. At the flower shop, a yellow gerber caught my eye. But I picked up the deep pink one instead, admiring its loveliness, thinking how much I adored it. And yet I put it down, riding on a sense that I should get the yellow. I knew,-- and whether the millisecond sentence/picture prayer had been uttered in the heart before or after or during the feeling, it didn't matter.
On my desk this morning, this note: "Thanks so much for taking the time to care and listen. It really means a lot and makes a difference. And thanks for the beautiful flower. You had no way of knowing yellow was Mom's favorite color and yet that's what you picked. Surely you are an angel in training."
I hope I have offered her Your love.
-
I don't yet know how to unpack her. She seems so complicated and yet so very simple at the same time. I wonder how to take her at face value, while also wondering what is going on inside, deeper.
I am trying to use a ruler with nanometer markings to measure something that is kilometers wide, and heck - doesn't even need to be measured!
She hugs me when I leave. And I'm afraid she hasn't understood that I don't understand her.
But maybe she does, more than I realize. Because two weeks later she sits across the table from me and says to me, "You and I live very different lives." "Very different," she reiterates.
I walk home and think about that. I am no longer holding back the tears, and strangers might wonder what concerns me - I am not living in poverty. Or am I?
We live very different lives. And yet I feel her pain. And furthermore, I feel the pain for the many others like her who haven't been offered the gift of acceptance.
I am learning to offer her Your love.
-
He reminds me that there are four women in the story I am thinking of writing. I point to myself, and a question mark is on my face. Yes, he nods. How do you fit in? The thread of the story, where does that fit into the story of your life?
Presence. Presents. Yes.
And this is what I've wanted from You. Your presence, to know that you're here. That you're here for me. That you hear me. This is what I've longed for.
And, and. And! What a gift you have given me to offer to others! I would not have had the gift if it had not been given from You. And so this, this!, Lord has shown me that yes, yes, yes! You are with me. You know me and are intimately acquainted with my soul.
I am learning to receive Your love.
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