Watching her story play out over the months has changed me. When all pretension is stripped away by tragedy and paralyzing fear, the core of someone is exposed. What I've glimpsed of her core is what's changed me. Not because it dazzles, and not because it hasn't been shaken, but because it is what it is what it is. Her core permeates every word she speaks, every prayer that escapes her lips, every moment of her every day. That kind of honesty and integrity in the midst of terrifying circumstances continues to stun me.
It's changing her too, in subtle ways. We close the door now, to avoid exhausting interrogations and chit chat. I do my best to stay between her and whoever she doesn't have energy for; we sneak around campus, taking the long way in hopes that we won't run into anyone. And she blows kisses towards his empty office when we pass. I know she wants to see him sitting there.
Her role has changed: she fills in the blank spaces in his speech, she reminds him of the words, of the stories, of the names of those they share their life with. She's dropped everything to play this role. And as she picks pieces back up again, she does so slowly and selectively, and eases cautiously back into what she calls "normal life".
She lives on the edge of prayer, the slightest thing sending her plummeting into the ongoing conversation she's having with the Creator of the universe. The unabashed way she approaches Him inspires me. She's had countless moments of intense loss, when he didn't get the joke or couldn't share the memory. It is in these kinds of moments where we truly meet ourselves, and where we truly see God, not for what we've made Him to be, but for what He is. As I watch and listen to her, it occurs to me that I'm in the presence of a woman who's leaning into that God, the God who can't be touched by the best efforts of our wildest imagination. And I wonder what it will take to make me that kind of woman.
No comments:
Post a Comment