one
My foot sits right next to Kevin’s under the table; I can feel the warmth of him. I glance away from my book, watching the rise and fall of his chest, noticing that he has begun to pray. His peaceful eyes shut out the world.
Years into my own relationship with God, I finally understand prayer as a state of being, a communicating intimacy, a conversation that continues beyond petitions and speeches without excluding them.
I know Kevin’s praying now and not asleep because I can feel his alert attention the same way I feel my children looking at me, needing, the way I sometimes hear them silently calling my name. Sometimes at night I wake up and feel Kevin awake beside me; sometimes in the pitch darkness, we start talking like it’s the middle of the day, without a trace of sleep clinging to the syllables. And sometimes in the thin spaces of night, I open my eyes to the alert attention of God, picking up our conversation right where we left off, as though sleep exists as nothing more than a breath.
Briefly, Kevin’s eyes flutter open and he looks at me with that gaze that really sees, and he smiles. Then he closes his eyes, returning to prayer, the way we would acknowledge one another in a crowded room and then go back to talking to the friend in front of us, ever so slightly turning our bodies to include.
“Marry your best friend,” I often tell my daughters. The one says, “Mmmhmm, I will, Mom Jones,” while the other pretends dismissal. I think of this now, content just to sit beside my husband with this book open in my hands, sharing his breath and even his prayer. How many times have I counted this gift, I wonder, thinking of my gratitude list, the mentions of this just being, this union that always continues. I watch the breeze lift the hair that falls softly over Kevin’s forehead. We’ve been best friends for a quarter of a century. Instinctively, we sit, we wander, we journey together, even through the valleys, even when the storms soak our skin and leave us sopping. I can often tell you what he’ll say before he speaks; I recognize his displeasure before he can put a name to it. I feel no need to fill all the air between us with words. And yet, sometimes I still wonder how it could be that he loves me, how time doesn’t manage to unravel us as it erodes my body. Sometimes doubts build a weary army to stretch out whatever space I imagine between us. Sometimes I say this to him, and he closes the gap with quick, honest strides, with the spoken truth.
Kevin shifts now, resting a hand on my knee. The afternoon sun lights his hair; the silver strands shine.
Lately, I am learning to pray without words. Jesus taught that verbosity fails at securing God’s attention (Matthew 6:7), and now I think I finally understand. So sometimes I just listen, walking along a glinting road, feeling a warmth overwhelming that supplied by the sun, a warmth of presence, of Life exceeding my comprehension or my breath. God and I have been close for a long time, longer even than I’ve known Kevin. And sometimes I still wonder how it could be that God loves me, me with my short perspective and my scars, me, with my mended heart. Sometimes I say this to Him, and He closes the gap with quick, honest strides, with Truth on the page, with Truth written on my heart.
