love scene

“Rebekah, sometimes you say weird things.”

We’re on the bed, on the mend, trudging through the aftermath of argument.

The children yet are sleeping.

Still my heart is aching.

“I know”, I say.   “I know I say weird things.”

Anyone who’s ever loved me knows this.

Anyone to ever love me loves me for the things I say, and loves me in spite of things I say.   It goes without saying–what I say is who I am.

But on the bed I’m being stoned to death by my own words ricoceting off the wall.  The wall.  I can’t break through the wall.

“I need you to see the pain in my heart.  I need you to catch the ball.”

I need to talk to you.  I want to play.  I want a partner.

That age-old question–Does the falling tree make a sound if there is no one in the woods to hear it?  Can a child play with no one to play with?

Can a woman be loved when there is no one to hear her?

No.

“Okay.  That makes sense,” he says.

I’m speechless.  I don’t know what to say.

The man replies.  He hears.

He understands.

I weep for joy.

~~~

But still, my arms are held against my chest.

He is there, touching me, kissing me.

I’m not ready.

“I am naked and exposed.”

“That’s a good thing,” he says.

“But it doesn’t feel good.”

I am a stone.  I can’t make love.  I can’t have sex.  Not like this.

“It’s like I’m a prostitute in my own bed.  I give sex for love–but it never works.  I can’t have sex without connection.  I am more than a body.  There is no part of me.  There is only all of me.”

I need you to love all of me.  I need you to receive my love.

He stops the touching, stops the kissing.

“I will prove it to you”, he says.  “We don’t have to do this.  I can walk away right now.”

No.

I close my eyes.

“You don’t have to prove anything to me.  You won’t prove anything by leaving.  You’ll show me by staying.”

Even though I say weird things.  Even though I said I felt like a prostitute in my own marriage bed.  Even though I hurt you.  Even though I expressed my pain, my humiliation, my desperate loneliness.

He stays.

He holds me close.  He says nothing.

His heat–I feel his heat, his arms, his mercy, his comfort, his safety–I feel his strength.

I release my arms and weep for joy again.

 

 

 

 

 

blank page

I have no idea what I just wrote.

That’s what comes out when I sit down, wanting to write, without knowing what to say.  It’s what comes out when I think nothing, feel nothing.  When everything is taking me under.  When I can’t do it anymore.  When the grip on my chest tightens so as I feel it in my throat like a merciless noose around my neck.  I sit with the Lutheran hymns live-streaming into my ears, stare blankly at a white screen, and wait for someone to do something, think something, feel something.  Anything.

That’s what comes out when the nothing is too much.

He comes and makes something out of nothing.

 

 

roll with it

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This Christmas feels different.

Even the weather has been weird, and trust me, it takes a lot for me to talk about the weather.  Yesterday the skies cried on and off all day long.

Today we’re just hanging out.

The rain has stopped, the clouds have parted, and we are here, waiting out the Advent storm.  I think I’m finally getting used to this.  Maybe that’s it.

It’s the difference of feelings on hold and Held Firm.