I think there’s a certain depth that comes from limping through disease, pain, screams, shaking, injections, panic, test results, care-taking, weakness–all of it.
I’m sure it will all leave its mark for a while. And not all negative either.
The closeness will leave a mark. Like from holding each other so closely you’re sure the pattern of their own heart is indented against your own; I’ll remember how he remained by my side through it all.
His hand rustles through the sheets until he finds my own, tugging at the ends of my fingertips, working his fingers up and lacing them through mine.
He’s trying to find me in the dark.
He’s always been reaching for me in the dark, not satisfied until he’s found me. I see it in his face as I’m voicing the disappointments, the hurts, the unbearable pain. His love for me so bold and intentional.
And I’m reminded, we’ve heard of this before. Christ’s arms spread out on Calvary, almost like they were reaching through death to find us. Reaching through the dark.
Christ’s greatest sacrifice was for the purpose of reaching through the dark to find us. And then to hold us completely once we’ve been found.
The 2am back rubs and the 6am pills as he is lifting my head to drink. I don’t think I’ve done anything to deserve this love. But that’s how I know it’s so pure.
So this is what I’ve learned:
the dark can creep up on you fast and stealthily, leaving you with an upside down world.
But his love has creeped up as well. His closeness. His friendship.
It’s left a mark that I won’t likely rid of. And from going through hell and back I’ve learned that I hope I wear his mark for a long, long time. Because it’s been the one thing that has best left the imprint of perseverance. Of grace. Of unconditional love. Of God.
Limping together now is making us ready to run together later.
And I know without a doubt that because he showed up and reached for me in the dark, soon he’ll be finding me in the light.