As of late, it seems I struggle with words.
No, that’s not right. It’s not a struggle really. It seems more I am resigned to a place unfamiliar (and yet not). It is a quiet peace, perhaps even a place created by grief, but not unwelcomed or uncomfortable.
It is a time of adjustment, acceptance, and clarity ~ a period of understanding that I have wondered might be related to aging, loss, or faith. Regardless, it is not cursed or filled with anxiousness. It is an unexpected blessing, a realization of grace, of love.
I miss my daddy, but it is not an ache that leaves me restless, looking for answers that I already possess. Rather, it is the little things where I find myself wishing he could share it with me (just before realizing that he does). When I round the curve on the road home and notice a group of more than twenty deer in the field near the woods; in wings fluttering along the fence line as I tend the feeder; a light through the window when I awake to the sound of my name.
Time is nothing but an invisible marker, a thread binding us forever to a moment – or rather binding the moment to us so that it is always the same, as near as our next breath. Ours.
We are never without love.
. . .