Sunday Roads

"Do not let sunday be taken from you. if your soul has no sunday, it becomes an orphan." Albert Schweitzer

Sunday, bringing in a new sunrise, a new home. Awaking to the warmth of the sun through the tall windows. Awaking to the sounds of chirping from the coop under the tree. Awaking to the softness of the skin next to her.

With a checkered collar and soft blonde peaks for him and a flowing dress and wispy black bangs for her, they rode down the long narrow road to the steeple they loved most often. Through words, through songs, through hugs and fellowship, they loved and were loved.

The next road, they ate and drank the overflowing cup of the deepest fellowship and family they knew. Through more songs, through more words, they cherished it as the next generation loving the ones before.

The next road, they were baptized in love, in fellowship, in Him, in babes, in newness, in life.

The next road, they slept, they dreamed, they heard the silence. They were met with babes, and drools, and smiles, and laughs, and cries and love.

The next road, they met home. A home. Their home and their home. They met the soft white sheets, the soft white fur, the soft sesame fur, the gentle love and perfect sleep.

That Day

That day, when everything they knew was stolen from them. That day, when the familiar comforters were no longer comforts. That day, when everything changed.

That day, when they moved their life into a box. That day, when they were greeted with arms of friends and family. That day, when rough cardboard and soft blankets and hard wood moved them.

That day, when she laid on soft leather and dreamt her fears away. That day, when soft white fur and soft sesame fur slept at her feet, in more innocence than she could conquer in her own being. That day, when he came home and held her close.

That day, when they moved, on.

The Times

“Dost thou love life? Then do not squander time, for that is the stuff life is made of.” Benjamin Franklin

The night, when she changed out her black textured stilettos for her perfectly contoured sandals, for a trip to the market. Freshly sliced meats, blocks of infused cheese, tossed edamame salad, soft pears, warm indian bread and sparkling sips. Arriving home, placing all of her delicious finds on smooth white plates and bowls, arranged on the warm wooden tray. Hustling to clean her home of packed boxes, newly arrived furniture, and the mundane of the day, into a glimpse of the home it was once, before it became a house. Always, greeting him with the most eager kiss and longing heart. They ate with an agape love.

The morning, when they woke up slowly. Again, and again. The sunrise peaking through the window, pairing with a morning grey. A glimpse of him, slowly smiling at the pup resting at her feet. Pulling the pups close, they played and they played. Their small family, loving each and every one, over and over. Talks of plans for the day, possibilities for the days, promises for the day. They met the morning grey with a freshly pressed collar, slim denim & pearls for her, gingham, dark wash & sandals for him. They awakened their morning with warm lattes and afternoon salads at the local coffee shop. Talks of politics, of news, and then of love. They frolicked the town, picking out their favorites to take home. Finding a local bakery, hidden in a familiar place, they pointed to their favorites and exchanged coins for a paper bag, filled with the most desirable sweets, that couldn’t wait until they arrived home. They played together, hours and hours, of new games that entertained them, until the sun said good day. They threw the whitest of powder on the warm brown stone, rolling out the fresh dough. Meats, fruits, sauces, they placed them on the oven stained stones, and watched as they baked. Sipping and devouring, they finished the night in his arms, watching endless movies.

The afternoon, when they arrived in the quaintest and familiar town to celebrate his mother. Family, friends, new and old. southern comforts and sweet iced tea. Gathering the babes by the hands, walking down stone streets, holding a small pup that needed a home, smiling at the train depot…thinking of all of the loves that kissed hello & farewell….finding small wooden toys at the festival, picking out his favorite to take home. Saying goodbye to his family, and hello to the hum of the engine and to sweet sleep, until they could celebrate her mother. Warm, buttery fish, cool slaw & honey biscuits. She set the table, with old familiar patterns and clothes, for the loves that could pair and celebrate together. Sweets, cards & settlements, ended the night. Oh so late, and oh so satisfying. Falling sleep, again & again, each time his arm touched her.

The morning, when she awoke, as if on clouds.

“This is life,” she thought. “To love those, and to be loved. To know who gives love, in this very hour.”

The House & The Home

“My soul yearns, even faints, for the courts of the LORD; my heart and my flesh cry out for the living God.” Psalm 84:2

She must have dreamt it. it was such familiar feeling; such a familiar voice. This desire to be…home. this desire to be near. This desire to be made whole……

They searched for months. They prayed for months. Hand-in-hand, fingers intertwined, lifting their only praise and only hope to the One who holds it all in His hands. They wanted their home.

The first look; when the smooth key unlocked the clean-white door into babes crying, dinners warming on the new stovetop, love in the bedroom, pups circling in the yard. This, this was the home…their home.

The promise was made. the cord of three was going to enter into a new home; a home of promises and of futures.

But, the wait. Oh, the wait. The wait of 27 days, now. The wait for a home, the wait for life, the wait for future. She put put her trust in Him and in him; the only one that could hold all her heart and the one that could all of her.

The One who promised her a year of peace & of hope. And she was reminded…like a dream. This desire for her earthly home, turning oh so quickly into a heavenly desire for her eternal home. Oh, how she longed for it. like a breath that finds itself captured in the midst of your small throat, she found this desire, for His home. No longer her home, but His home. And the irony, her home, is actually His home. If she can desire something so earthly and small in comparison to eternity, should she not desire His streets of gold and angelic homes so much more? Oh, her stubborn soul. Humility, grace & hope found themselves in that moment…not for the first time, but for the longest time.

So now, she lives in promises. With eternal promises, not earthly wanders. And while the smooth white keys that she presses even now, can deceive even herself, she has…will…and will always…wait on Him. Because He is the faithful One.

“The one who calls you is faithful, and He will do it.” 1 Thessalonians 5:24

And while she waits, she waits with a smile on her face and in her soul. Because the wait is not a lack of promise, but of a promise that is growing and exceeding her wildest dreams. Because while she waits, and wonders, she will not have to wander.

“But why did you need to search for me? Didn’t you know that I must be in my Father’s house?” Luke 2:29

So, there she is. Waiting. With Him. And with him.

“Home is the nicest word there is.” Laura Ingalls Wilder

The Story

“Storytelling is the conveying of events; in words, in images, in sounds, in embellishment.”

They laid in bed, the thick cream cover and chocolate sheets covering them. The fan blowing above whispered gently. A pup’s heavy breathing and warm fur beside her. The light from his tablet reflecting on his face. His small smile broke the silence.

“You should write,” he whispered to her.
“I have before,” she whispered back.
“No, you should write again,” he urged her.
“But no one would read it,” she softly wondered.
“I would,” he smiled back.

And now, she is here. Declaring her story; his story. Their life, in all of the beauty, mess, love and lessons. Like parables, like storytelling, like a child’s game, she is throwing her words, memories and thoughts into something. Something more, something lasting, something perfectly imperfect. The story of him & her.

“It was rather beautiful: the way he put her insecurities to sleep. The way he dove into her eyes and starved all the fears and tasted all the dreams she kept coiled beneath her bones.” Christopher Poindexter