I don’t know whether I slipped or leapt to embrace you but I do know that you are mine. Hello, new year.
My brother and sister-in-law’s friends are pretty legit – I had the chance to hang with them during the wedding recently.
They embrace life and community as a changing flux but hold each other closely.
As creative folk, they constantly evolve their thinking process and add to their narratives from the experiences and people they encounter. They yearn for doing work that gives life to them and life to others. And they don’t take bullshit because they know when things beyond them are worth releasing and jobs are worth quitting.
They know we are not yet home but they don’t spend time coasting. They get dirty in the hustle and the struggle until the dirt under their nails becomes a sweet aroma. Success is not a bar to reach but a wrestling that sometimes results in a bloody, cut eye. It’s like an injury that you’re not sure how or why you got it. But it’s there, so you wear it as your victory badge until it blends into the lines around your eyes when you laugh about it.
Before you know it, their casual words waft in across your temples, sinks down into your chest, past the pit of your stomach, and roots into your loins. It loosens the scales you have carried from birth and ones you gained through learning, leaving you naked but fully accepted. Then it births a tingle that clothes your skin and sets in as a patina on your spirit.
And you know you can’t go back, you can’t unhear. The cries of new birth cannot be stifled because all a new babe knows is how to cry for attention. And its cries erupt in my chest as I say my goodbyes, not knowing when I might see them again. As we part, I turn back to my babe, not yet adulterated. And I strap her close to my chest, knowing now that I am hers as much as she is mine.
Recently I hung out with Des and got to soak in the ways that she and my brother live life. Well, not so much hung out as much as I needed a place to crash because I was fever-ridden with chills. But in the little moments of clarity that I could wander outside the guest room, I heard snippets and tales of their life’s dedication. They intentionally took on relationships with others, investing in a boy who’s life was a little left of center and many travelers who stayed in their guest room. And those words that they shared with each person weaved a trail of love, hospitality, and grace.
From her home to her work place and fun times, she described their mutual intentionality towards being the love and life of Christ with whoever they met. Even the way they spent money and what they bought with it was thought out (usually researched too). They recognize that the time in this place is temporary. We are like a mist that is here and is gone.