Textured

I run my hand along our new wall. It's flawless. You can do just about anything with sheet rock, and it really doesn't matter what it looks like when it goes up....if you have someone who knows how to do a good job of taping and mudding. And that just makes me think of him...of them...and it hurts.

I run downstairs to fetch some garden potatoes out of the basement, and I have to step over the little pile of sheet rock compound that he spilled and that I stilled hadn't cleaned up. And I think about him, them, again...and it hurts.

The furnace kicks in, that quiet hum that is so comforting, the air that somehow gets heated from the ground even when it's this cold out. I dunno...he explained it all to my husband, and my husband tried to explain it to me again, but I still don't get it. All I know is, he fixed it, and every time that thing kicks in, I think of him...of them...and it hurts some more.

I bundle up my tots and put that hat on the girl, that hat that he gave her when she broke her arm. And my heart turns to him...to them...and I just want to cry.

I walk out to the shed with the kids and glance over at the spot that marks our septic system's lift pump. A year ago he came over in the dark and cold and helped my husband dig down through over three feet of snow to fix something. And again my thoughts are of him...of them...and there's that pang of hurt.

My hand stops on the new wall and my eyes focus on the texturing.....the texturing that he did. And you guessed it. I'm reminded of him...of them...and my heart is aching...for him...for them.

Why do people want little bumps on their walls anyway? Why don't we want it perfectly smooth?

Why can't life be perfectly smooth?

Why can't I stop hurting? Why are there constantly tears in the back of these eyes?

But every pang of hurt, every stinging tear leads to a prayer. Earlier on, during that dark day, that hurt and those tears would send me to my knees praying the blood of Jesus, asking for mercy, pleading for that grace that moves mountains. I go to sleep and still the hurt is there, and her face is there, stained with tears, in my dreams.

What's wrong with me? Why am I so affected?

Would I wish away these hurts and tears? Would I want these little "bumps" to be made smooth?

But are not these aches, these bumps, the very things that drive me to pray? The things that remind me of him...of them...become the very things that cause me to breath prayer for him...for them.

And when there are no more words, I know that the "bumps" of hurt textured across my heart are prayers in and of themselves.

"For we do not know what we should

pray for as we ought, but the Spirit Himself

makes intercession for us

with groanings which cannot be uttered."

Romans 8:26

And this is how I will let it be. I will let God texture my heart with prayers for others. And when the miracles start rolling in for him...for them...then thanks will be added to the layers.

The heaviness is gone now.

Thankful now for the miracles, for the life saved, for the mobility preserved, for the path to recovery embraced. 

And excited now to go see him...to go see them...tomorrow.