Him and Her

I wrote this about 4 months ago for two of my dear friends...

She’s a strong woman.  A woman who knows what she wants.

She’s intelligent in every way, able to write thought-provoking papers and get out of sticky situations.  She has a heart of gold, one of the purest I've ever known, constantly thinking about what’s best for others and what will make them comfortable and at ease.  Her fierce desire to please the Lord is what presses her onward, through the hard times and above her persecutors.  She is a lover of all things in their purest form: food, nature, and people.  She loves deeply and doles out mounds of compassion to those in need.  Her voice is full, yet gentle, combining with the air waves around and in her to form a lyrical noise as melodious as a chorus of songbirds.  She laughs without hesitation at the smallest of humorous thoughts.  She leans not of her own understanding, but on the plans of the Lord to guide and persuade her onward. 

She is a woman worthy of being loved by only the purest of hearts and worthy of being appreciated for every little quirk.  She is beautiful. She is real. She is imperfectly perfect, and she deserves someone who loves that about her.

He is a man of gentle strength.  A man who knows who he is in Christ.

He is thoughtful and romantic, capable of sweeping any, and every girl off his feet, yet he chose her.  His blind naivety places him in a category only a few have been able to innocently achieve.  He loves being in awe and continuously tries to find the beauty in everything around him.  He has a passion that sometimes cannot be controlled but is bound up so fully within him that it often doesn't matter if it is controlled or not.  He is a lover of all things rare and God-breathed.  He pours himself into people and leaves himself for last, attracting everyone to him.

He is a man capable of loving her to the fullest. Of giving her everything she could ever need.  He is desirable to many, loved by most, but adored by one. He must become like a velvet covered brick.  Soft and gentle on the outside, yet strong and stable on the inside.  He can love her, and she him, in the perfect unity of our God.

Short Story - continued

I’m sorry Gramps, it just reminded me so much of the good old days. 

You remember don’t you?  Sitting on the front porch on that old squeaky glider, rust creeping over the edges of its white, flaking paint, just watching the sky gust and the cows graze.  We each had a glass of lemonade in our left hand and a cigar balancing between our right index finger and thumb, mine thin and yours thick.  Mama always said you were a bit of a hard ass, never letting anyone break through you and always having something spiteful to say.  But I never had much trouble speaking to your soul and in turn, you speaking to mine.  We had a way of having deep conversations without saying a single word.

You remember, don’t you?

I never understood why you had so many orange, cylindrical Rx bottles lining your bedroom windowsill.  I never understood why there were so many when you were taking them and I especially never understood them after you stopped.  You told everyone that you were doing just fine and that the meds were really helping this time, even though everyone could clearly see that they were not.  I don’t know why you didn’t just throw the bottles away.  At least you wouldn’t have to be reminded every morning of how quickly your own death was approaching with every pill that remained in that bottle a day too long, day after day.  I wouldn’t have blamed you.

I still don’t blame you for what happened.

Grama does, but I don’t.

And how can anyone even blame her? She never saw it coming, that darling thing.  What was inevitable to everyone else was utter shock to her, a woman who, for 65 years had lived in the same house with the man she loved so dearly since she had met him.  We all dreaded that day, knowing it was coming, yet hoping it wouldn’t.  Everyone claimed that they dreaded it because, of course, it would mean the end of you in our lives, but really, I think that everyone was just so worried about Gram.  I tried telling her that you were getting old and that sometimes people just have to leave us, even if it’s too soon and even when we aren’t finished learning about who they are and telling them about ourselves.  But she just sat there and chuckled lightly to herself and told me that you would never do that because you promised you would be with her forever, in sickness and in health, in life and in death, and that meant that if you were going, then so was she.

I didn’t know how to take that because quite honestly, if I was with the man of my dreams for 65 years, I would have said the same thing.

That rusty glider is still on your front porch in case you were wondering.  Grama let us get rid of everything in the house that we deemed clutter except that.  She practically lived on that thing after you went.  To be honest, I think she might have spent a few nights out there with the blanket you gave her on your first wedding anniversary and the picture you sent her while you were off fighting for our freedom.  Your passing didn't hurt as much as her suffering hurt me after you went.

You were ready, she wasn't.

Gramps, what made you want to stay as long as you did?  Was it just the familiarity of everything?  Was it the people? Was it really Grama?  Everyone says that it was her, and of course I want to believe that... but something tells me there was something else rooting you here.  I know how deeply you loved Grama, I never doubted that.  I saw the way you looked at her every time she placed your dinner in front of you like she had the last 65 years.  You looked at her like you had never seen anything more beautiful in your life.  Every time you saw her, it was like your blind, creaky eyes had just been flung wide open and there in front of you was the most magnificent creation that God could have ever conjured up.

I want someone to look at me like that someday.

Mama keeps ignoring the fact that both of you are gone now.  Once Grama realized that your picture was never going to hold her and your blanket would always grow colder no matter how long she left it by the fire, she couldn't hold on anymore.  She had nothing keeping her here as much as I would love to believe that her children were enough, they weren't.  And I don't think they are hurt by that.  They knew that you had invaded her heart long ago and had swelled inside every nook and cranny in her massive heart.  They knew that they could never equal you, and for some reason unbeknownst to me, they were okay with that.  I think it was because her love for you was so pure.  It was so untainted and real.  I didn't know you two for even a quarter of the time you knew each other and yet that purity permeated my soul.  Is she with you now?

I can't imagine any other place she could possibly be.  Her soul wouldn't allow for anything otherwise.

Mama keeps trying to tell me that we just need to look for signs you and Grama left behind to tell us a message or some kind of story.  I have no idea what she is talking about.  I think it's her way of denying that there is no getting you two back.  She can't accept that fact that you already had your last words.  I feel bad for her, I really do.

But if only she would let herself grieve...

Collette is 6 now.  She doesn't remember you but I tell her stories all the time.  All she knows about you is that you were a hero and you were brave and you loved so fiercely that it almost hurt.  She knows that you were charming and handsome and that you knew how to herd cattle and till the fields. She knows that you had a stout chest and strong hands, yet they always felt soft patting our little heads.  She knows that you loved her.  I sing her the lullaby you sang to her when she was first born, even as you were withering away inside.

Your voice still echoes in my mind.  It seems to float along every gust of wind and every chirp of the birds.

Gramps, what's it like where you are?  I only ask because I like to be prepared before I meet someone I haven't seen in awhile.  I see you in the meadows and I see you in the dirt.  I know I'll see you in the stars eventually.

My journey isn't over yet, but when it is, I want people to talk about me the way I can't help but talk about you.  I'm sitting on that rusty glider now, glass of lemonade in my right hand as usual.  I see the cows and the pastures and the dust rolls along the creaky floorboards of that age old porch.  Everythingg seems almost normal.  Except instead of a thin cigar, this time I'm smoking a fat one and my index finger and thumb are maneuvering themselves to look just like yours did on those breezy, beautiful nights, watching time pass over the meadows and mosquitoes nip at our skin.

Not much has changed, really.