Glory Be

I know that healing of the heart manifests itself in many ways. Each tender mercy from God above fills leaky holes, stitches up open wounds, hacks away at scar tissue, lends a hazy hope, until eternity, at last, has her final say.

My husband, as has been his habit the past few mornings, has lit a fire in our den, or living room, as Steve calls it. Greg lights it for me as he's getting ready for work at 4:30 in the mornings. I got up this morning before the flames died into embers while Sarah, Isaac, and Hennessy competed for the front row of the fire. As usual, Sarah won.

Cats are girls in personality like dogs are boys in character. It all works if we let it. Everyone still gets warm.

To me, it’s a den, refashioned from my son’s room, by Greg, my loving husband who has remained by me through the thick and thin of it all.

It’s been both.

But that’s not why I write this morning. Although I’d love to be working on a scene, pricking at a thesaurus, or playing with words, I’m merely here to keep it simple.

Dr. Chatwell is an observant MD; for he told my mom two summers was the length of time for heartache to lessen after loss. He paid attention, passed it on.

Mom told me this when the only thing I was searching for was time. When would it be over? This elusive quality of healing or even escape?

I was thankful for her words to me in her backyard on that day. It was the first time someone gave me an answer to how long?

Time.

I still don’t understand it all—but I’m at greater peace than before. I don’t think it was God that moved from me, or even me from God. I just think, I believe, one of the dimensional scales has been nicked from my tired eyes one more time. No doubt, it’s a laser surgery that will take place in my life many times before I go home to see them all. Those who wait for me there.

It’s not always unique in how our Heavenly Father reveals himself. But then, sometimes it is.