Moments

“We had a moment,” she said.

I laughed because it’s the kind of statement made by any fanciful teenage girl returning from a concert—the wishful musings of a dreamer who thought the electric guitarist resembled a sexy pirate.

And I might have shrugged off her silly comment had I not been sitting right next to her, witnessing the event with my own eyes.

Because there really was a moment.

A fragile, yet certain beat when he looked right at her and their rock fists made like a long distance high five.

They connected. Not with their hands, but with their hearts.

In that moment, though it seems hard to believe, he truly was playing for her.

And he kept playing for her throughout the remainder of the concert.

A kiss was blown; a wave was exchanged; and the girl spent the rest of the night on her feet, cheering, chanting, screaming his name.

It was their moment, sacred and shared.

A tenuous connection weaved on the threads of a guitar riff, beautiful in its simplicity, magical in its certainty, and exciting in its spontaneity.

It made her day. It made her year. And she would even go as far as to say it made her life.

Somehow I don’t doubt its life-making potential.

Even as an observer, I felt the magic of the moment. Sensed how she caught that magic, wrapped it up in her hands, and pressed it close to her heart.

It is moments like these for which we live.

Moments when two hearts begin to beat to the same rhythm.

Moments when two souls that will surely never meet again forge a bond across a distance, rock fists held high, heads thrown back in elation.

Yes, life is made in moments like these.

 

Ordinary

Sometimes I think you try too hard. To be anything other than who you really are.

I don’t know what you’re afraid of. Or why you think no one will ever accept you as you are. Because, oddly enough, the times I find you hardest to swallow are when you’re feeding me what you think I want instead of the you I know you to be.

Did you know it hurts me to see you stretched to your limits? Bending and breaking beneath the weight of these expectations you have placed upon yourself?

To be different. To be normal. To be ordinary.

Because I never wanted normal from you.

Not for a minute. Not from the moment you stepped into my space and left me with an impression that was anything but ordinary.

Ordinary doesn’t feel so welcome and inviting. Normal doesn’t feel so much like coming home.

And I wish you could see what I see when I look at you. I wish you would stop fighting the intricate, inconsistent, and extraordinary quirks that struggle to the surface of your ordinary facade. Because it is the depths beneath your layers of pretense that draw me, inexplicably, to you.

I wish you would stop trying so hard to be ordinary, so I wouldn’t have to try so hard to know all the extraordinary facets of you.

Sometimes

Sometimes I go out walking and, instead of walking just to walk, I walk to marvel in the beauty of the world around me.

Sometimes I throw my arms out to the side, dancing and twirling down the road.

Sometimes the skies expand and the mountains close in around me and it makes me feels so very small. So very small in the biggest, most beautiful way.

Sometimes I stop by the rippling creek and listen to the waters churn in a delightful symphony. And I wonder why I don’t stop to hear the music more often.

I wonder why sometimes the world is magical, and sometimes it seems so ordinary. Why sometimes I wake up with a song in my heart and sometimes I wake up with a frown on my face.

And I think life is what we make it all the time. Sometimes we make it beautiful, and sometimes we bury the wonder in busyness and haste. Sometimes we make life ugly and messy because we don’t take the time to paint a better picture.

Sometimes we need to take a step back and breathe. Just breathe. Listen to the heartbeat of the world and find a way to mold your own into it.

Because sometimes we need to remember that this world is so much bigger than us. That we are part of a greater story. That we were meant to create beauty wherever we go.

Let’s make the world magical more than sometimes.

 

Coffee

“You should take this time to travel. Live overseas,” he said.

I shook my head because what would I want with an adventure like that? And I realized I’m surprised, yet again, by the fact that people don’t know me. So much of my insides that I thought shone through aren’t actually evident to other people.

They see that I’m in love with the world, and assume I have a desire to travel it. But I’m okay with loving the world from right here.

I don’t live for places. I don’t live for things. I don’t live for experiences.

I went to India, and I didn’t see the jungle; I saw the boys who splashed in the river, free from the addictions that once ruled their lives.

I went to England, but I didn’t see any of the historical sights; I saw a British woman and an African man pledging their lives to one another and preparing to shine their light in a country far from home.

I went to Sweden, but I couldn’t describe the streets of Stockholm; I remember clearly, though, the excitement in my tour guide’s eyes as he tried to show me all these things. And I would tell him now, “Sorry, I wasn’t paying attention. The streets paled in comparison to the light in your eyes.”

Because I live for people.

I live for the moments when they come alive. I live for the times they open their hearts and I see who they really are beneath all the fluff.

I don’t need adventure. I don’t need exotic. I just need a coffee shop, and you across the table from me. I would memorize the way your fingers dance around the rim of your cup, and I would listen—really listen—to the words coming out your mouth. And I’d hope to catch a glimpse beneath them, at what you’re really trying to say.

So, darling, let’s get coffee. I’ll pretend to drink mine as you tell me stories of the life you’ve always wanted to live.

That will be adventure enough for me.

Sunshine

i don’t know how it happens
that even on those raincloud days
when the world washes gray around me
and I can’t hear my own thoughts
over the rumble of the thunder
that little burst of sunshine
comes sweeping through the doors
and sets the world right again

yes, that little burst of sunshine
with that glowing sunshine smile
hovers over everything
and looks right at me—
not over me, not through me
but right into me as if he knows that
I’ve been waiting all day for
his little burst of sunshine

he sweeps in for a moment
gone almost as soon as he comes
but the sunshine seems to linger
seems to shimmer in the puddles
and I know the world’s a different place
than it was only moments ago
and I wonder if he even realizes
how dark this corner was before he entered it

he’s a little burst of sunshine
lighting up my days with
the glimmer of his presence
smiling through the rainclouds
reminding me that I, too,
carry a little burst of sunshine
deep down on the inside
where the rainclouds try to hide it away

Heartbeat

Thump, thump.

A heartbeat:
solid, steadfast, certain.

Thump, thump.

That ever-present rhythm:
necessary, but forgotten.

We pay no mind to such ordinary functions.
It’s just another normal beat on another normal day.

Thump, thump.

It speeds up. It slows down.
It comforts us somehow.
Lets us know we’re still alive
even though we may feel dead inside.

Thump, thump.

I grow more aware of heartbeats
with each moment that passes me by.
An entire lifetime is measured
in these simple, faithful beats.

Thump, thump.

It beats for me.
It beats for you.
It beats for a world that needs
a rhythm to dance to.

Thump, thump.

A dream pulses.
Persistent.
Hopeful.
Here.

Thump, thump.

Let your heart beat.
Let your heart dance.
Let your heart be a haven
for those lost in the storm.

Thump, thump.

It whispers so softly.

Thump, thump.

It screams so loud.

Thump, thump.

You have a purpose.
A wonderful, glorious purpose.
Yes, you are alive for a reason.
Your heartbeat declares it so.

Thump, thump.

Listen.
Hear it singing.
Your reason to go on.

Thump, thump.
Thump, thump.
Thump, thump.

Nemo

“Don’t you worry. You’re young. There are plenty of fish in the sea.”

Plenty of fish in the sea. That phrase is so odd, and nowhere near helpful.

I know there are millions of fish in there, swimming around beyond my reach. But this one… This one, he flopped right into my lap. Tossed himself out of the waves and wriggled his way into my hands. That’s the fish I’m asking about. Not the ones that are contentedly swimming miles beneath my feet.

What do I do with this fish? That was the question. I only have eyes for this fish right now.

So they start pointing to out his flaws, entreating me to dismiss the idea of him.

“Throw him back; he’s got a gimpy fin.”

“But he could be my Nemo,” I say. “Did you ever think of that? Maybe I’ve found Nemo.”

Perhaps I don’t go about my job the way the other fishermen do. They sort and they classify and they throw them back. If they’re not the biggest and the brightest and the best, they throw them right back in.

Those ones are not worthy. They wasted their time with them.

I don’t believe in wasted time; I believe in sacred moments.

Each fish is something to marvel at. Every time I pull one into the boat, he takes my breath away. There’s something beautiful about the process of catching and holding and sometimes letting go.

Yes, sometimes the most awe-inspiring thing is letting him go.

I look down at this fish in my hands and watch his gills shudder for breath. And I realize he wasn’t made for my hands. No, he wasn’t made for me.

Someone else is looking for Nemo. Somewhere beneath the surface of the sea, they search frantically.

I don’t want to stand in the way of such a beautiful reunion. So with gentle hands I lower him back to the waters from which he came.

“Goodbye, Nemo. It’s been nice knowing you. I hope you find your family. I hope you find your home.”

And while the other fishermen work around me, I watch the waves where he disappeared, wanting a life for him better than I could ever give. I hope he finds it.

I hope he finds it.

Gone

I’ve never feared losing you. Never even considered it might be possible.

You are forever. Always. Permanent.

You and I, we’re invincible.

But the older I get—the longer I live—the more I come to realize what a fleeting thing life is.

Here today. Gone tomorrow.

You could be gone tomorrow.

That’s one of the hardest thoughts I’ve ever had to swallow, but I taste it now in all its terrible truth.

A moment, a second, a heartbeat and you could be gone forever.

Because life really is that fragile, and as much as I try to deny it, you are a temporary being.

Here today. Gone tomorrow.

And I don’t want to live in fear of losing you, but I do want to live as if I knew it could happen. I really could wake up and find that you’re gone.

I want to tell you, over and over and over again, that I love you. I know those words are so commonplace they’re hardly noticed anymore, but I want you to know that I love you.

I want you to know that you’re everything to me. That all the life and beauty and blessings you’ve poured into me have made me who I am, and I’m thankful for that. I’m thankful for you.

And all those long walks we’ve taken, when we poured out our hearts and shared our dreams, have meant the world to me.

Your shoulder that has always been there for me to cry on, and your words of truth that have pulled me through the darkest of days… I don’t know what I would do without them.

I don’t know what I would do without you.

I don’t know how to picture life without you. I cannot even fathom what it would look like for you to be gone. I pray it’s many long years before I even have to imagine such a thing.

But if I haven’t told you enough times how much you mean to me—if I’ve taken you for granted all this time—forgive me. I was wrong.

Because you are the best thing that ever happened to me.

And I want you to know that—really know that—before you’re gone.

Pieces

I spent six weeks peering through the cracks in his facade before he finally let the walls come down. Now he stands before me. Honest. Vulnerable. Broken.

Broken.

He’s broken, he’s broken.

And somehow I’m the one stooping to my knees in attempt to help him pick up the pieces of his shattered life.

Perhaps the hardest realization I have ever made is that this is not my job.

These pieces aren’t mine to cradle and cherish. I was not meant to mend this wounded soul.

I want to.

Oh, how I want to.

I want to be the one to take his hand and tell him he doesn’t have to fight it anymore. That he’s allowed to fall apart with the pieces and take the time to be broken if that is what it takes to help him heal.

I think we’re both in denial.

Him, that he’s broken. Me, that I’m not able to set everything right.

I’m afraid of stepping into this mess because it’s bigger than me. I know it’s only going to swallow me up and pull me under and steal the very breath from my lungs.

Ah, who am I kidding? Those are the kind of messes I run into full force, with fierce determination to make it through to the other side.

But sometimes, in my charging ahead, I don’t realize the messes I leave in my wake.

And my biggest fear with this one is that I’m going to mess it up even worse. That in my zeal to scoop all the brokenness up, I’m going to trample a few pieces underfoot. I’m afraid they’re going to fall from my hands like enchanted rose petals and I’m going to lose my chance to turn the beast back into a man.

I’m afraid that maybe I never was the girl who had come to break the spell.

And I want him to know—though I’ll never find the words to explain it—that walking away is the hardest thing I’ve ever done, but I truly believe it’s the best thing I can do for him. To back away slowly so nothing shatters like glass beneath my feet.

Because I’m not what he needs in this moment.

As hard as it is for me to admit, I’m simply not enough.

I could deny it and keep pressing forward, or I can be strong enough to accept the truth.

My eyes lock on his. I take one step back, then another.

Darling, I’m sorry if you don’t understand, but I only ever wanted the best for you. Please trust that I’m doing what’s best for you. And one day the pieces are going to fit back together. I’ll leave you to pick up the pieces, dear one. You’re the only one who knows where they fit.

Goodness

“We don’t call those relationships; we call those mistakes.”

The first time I ever heard those words, I cheered. I cheered because it seemed we should all be allowed to walk away from things that wounded us without a second glance. We should all be strong enough to brush our painful choices aside. We should all be able to live as though the past never happened.

Or so I thought.

But I was wrong.

I was wrong because wounds fester when left on their own.

I was wrong because strength does not come in ignoring the problem, but in facing it—charging ahead and staring it down until it is left with no choice but to retreat.

I was wrong because the past isn’t something we should ever forget; it’s something we should learn from. It shapes us and guides us more than we will ever know.

But mostly I was wrong because it is never our right to call someone a mistake, as if he was inherently wrong.

Maybe he wasn’t the right fit for you. Maybe trying to force the relationship hurt. But he’s not a mistake.

I think it’s time for all of us to stop trying to burn our memories into ashes.

Time to release the anger and the bitterness and the hurt and the longing to label lost loves a mistake.

Mistake, mistake, mistake.

That’s what you called him, but he wasn’t.

He isn’t.

He’s a human being.

And he deserves goodness just as much as you do.

Let’s offer him goodness, shall we?

Let’s stop cutting him down and ripping him up and telling all our friends how wrong he is.

Because once upon a time your tongue only tied beautiful things to his name. He’s still worthy of those beautiful things. You’re simply too hurt to see it.

And, darling, let me ask you: Does it truly make you feel better?

To seethe and hate and regret every moment you spent with him? Have you forgotten how precious those moments were?

Have you forgotten the joy of sitting by his side as the sky fades to black and you wrap yourself tighter in a jacket that smells of his cologne?

Will you regret those moments, too?

Will you truly regret those moments he made you feel fully alive?

I hope not.

I hope you find some other purpose that makes you feel that alive again.

And I hope you want the same for him.

I hope you only wish him Goodness. And Beauty. And Light.

Because, darling, Bitterness doesn’t suit you, Anger doesn’t fit you in the shoulders just right, and Unforgiveness is a poison that will sap the life right out of your pretty little soul.

Let it go.

Let it go and wish him all those things you wanted for him before he broke your heart.

For your sake.
For his sake.
For the sake everyone you’ve dragged into this web of bitterness.

Because we were made for good things.

Let us give only goodness wherever we go.