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.

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.