February 12, 2017
Water flowing over rocks, rounding corners, fluttering past branches, racing through narrow ways, this is the conversation last night. It is constant back and forth between tight places spilling into deep cisterns diverging again into fragmented talking, bubbling always into deep laughter. The round wooden table around which we share, in a dimly lit room, is fitting for the life goals, life sorrows, and life tragedies spoken to one another while listeners hush. We are honored with the contents of their heart. Through the lens of us redeemed, we know these chards and fragments tower into a mountain of hope. For, we believe. We hope. We love.
A husband joins us as he is the last of the men, the others leaving to rest their weary heads. For it is late, very late. Some of us leave yet wander back pulled by the unknown tug of the expectant. We are not disappointed. The night is rich with moments shared that for many of us will be a memory seared into our hearts and senses, satisfying all five. To live is to hurt. To love is to share. To listen is to honor. To hope is to live.
Our brother leads us to a solemn moment, he senses his friend's presence. Our time in this home is full, rich, but Rich is not here. But our friend hears him laughing, sees him crying and senses he is proud of his widowed wife. At moments like this we allow Jesus to minister beyond theology. It is well with our souls and we empty full cisterns grabbing tissues.
The night goes long as we have another heart to hear. We want to listen. And again we grieve the pain, the sorrow. But as we end our time in the wee hours of the morning we affirm our assignment on the planet. We are His hands and we are His feet. And we are called to love and to love well.