There is a distance in our midst; here in our home of four. It is a void between us. His eyes look hollow and empty, anxious and insecure of the future. My eyes plead for his to wake up with that spark that is so comforting and beautiful. I am quickened to his needs, but am too exhausted to meet them. I am giving and pouring and inevitably empty.
My body is quickening, tightening daily. Preparing for the release of new life. A time in which things will once again shift. And the distance will remain; or return if it has made it's departure by then. Shakily we move forward. Grasping what is laid at our feet for this day.
Only this day.
Innocence runs barefoot on our front lawn. They, too, feel something is about to give. They look at me with deep need, as if longing for the similar. They never mention their fear of the unknown storm that is slowly blowing in, but I can sense it. I see it in their bedtime prayers and simple touches. They are longing for me. For him.
For the four of us to remain.
And we will remain.
Only four will become five.
Normal soon to come.
Clinging to a Lord who is the only One who knows, we press onward. Hoping to be shaken, only for His will and not that of our circumstances. Because despite them, He is still God. He is still in control. There is little worry in my flesh or body, but it is around me. In others who fear.
For them to settle, I pray. Allowing the Holiest to move, calm, and flow.
Surrendering to that which is now.
Bridging this nuisance, that which is distance, between us so we can move forward with eager anticipation instead of utter unknown.
Praying we can do that, if only for today.