five minute friday: together.
He gave me a card, on our anniversary. I didn’t buy one for him, not yet, and my perfectionist, on time personality was crushed. But he didn’t mind. He gave me the card anyway, and I cracked the licked seal, opened it wide to receive. His words are always rich, honeycomb gold.
We were sitting on a bed, not our bed, a bed that hundreds of other parents or family members have shared over the years. The room was drafty, the top of a heritage house, a mansion really. It’s a children’s hospice, and we were staying there a few nights of respite. We were there to rest, to recuperate, to spend our anniversary. Our daughter Florence, downstairs in the loving hands of the nurses. Five years ago we were married, young, sweet greenhorns on a new journey.
The path has shifted over time, turned left and right, down into the wheat fields, where the harvest was plenty. And then we found ourselves at the foot of a hill, a mountain, where it’s damp and cool and lonely. Nothing seems to grow here. And yet we started climbing, together, we clamped our hands tight around our hearts, even tighter still when we reached those rocky crevices. And we’re still not there, not over the mountain, but we’re climbing it together, determined to summit, too see the sun rise.
He wrote in that card, “A threefold cord is not quickly broken.” Ecclesiastes 4:12.
I love you, like always, like never before.
I loved him then, like I loved him at first. These words are what broke into the deep love in my heart, expanded it: we are together, and together we are stronger.
He sees these same struggles with me, watches them come, and yet carries me when I am weak. He weeps with me, yet is always there to whisper in my damp hair. And often, he’s the one that makes my laughter rise, loud and real.
Three cords, me and him and Jesus, me and him and Florence, three of us, together.
We will soar, and we will summit, we will see redemption cloak our sweat laden backs, cover us on our knees.