this, then, is a mystery
Early morning and the day breathes new, and already, I feel tired. Kevin walks through the kitchen to hug me before he leaves for work. He smiles at me, saying without words that whatever the day brings, we will travel through together. I reach for him, stretching my arms long to wrap them all the way around and tight. I stand on my tiptoes to hide my eyes in his neck, and I exhale, releasing everything into his embrace. And for just a moment, I am hidden in his strength.
The kids turn their eyes from breakfast and let them rest on the two of us, and I feel them looking, absorbing the mystery. I am swept back thirty years, more, my own round eyes blinking, my own small ears hearing my mother sigh and let go, just for a moment. Mom always buried her eyes in Dad’s chest. Even the side of her face, her expression, she safely hid behind her arm, reaching up, holding tight. They still hug that way sometimes, and Dad wraps his steady arms around her back. I know the strength, the safety of those arms. As a little girl, I planted myself just there every time I felt my own weakness. Sometimes Mom stayed hidden in Dad’s arms for what felt like an uncomfortably long time. But now I know that, for her, those moments always felt too short. Mom only stood still like that, emptied and breathing, for his embrace. Then she would straighten and smile, and move back into her day, flitting like a hummingbird, wise and sharp and beautiful.
“Are you okay, Mom?” I would ask, anxious, my attention captured by a moment I didn’t fully understand.
“Yes,” she’d say simply, smiling at me, her eyes all strength. “Are you okay?” She never offered explanation, but now I’m not surprised. How do you explain such abiding, such trust, such rest?
“I could stay here all day,” I often mumble into that spot, all mine, below Kevin’s jaw, eyes closed, breathing in the salty, sweet smell of his aftershave. His arms rest strong against my back, and I feel him smiling.
“Wouldn’t that be nice?” He always says, and I open my eyes, squeezing once more, inhaling a fresh breath. Somehow those moments, hidden, obscured from view by love, heal the weary sigh in me. Somehow I leave his arms and still feel them around me. And somewhere in the surrender, the submission, he takes up my burden, lifting it as his own. And I know he will offer up everything—his life, his breath—to see me safe.
Zoe watches, studying, testing the new expression on my face, the light just born in my eyes.
“Mom, are you okay?”
“Yes, sweet girl. I’m good. You?”
She tastes the mystery, profound, deep, rich.
It is the mystery of Christ and the church (Ephesians 5:32), the way we reach for Him, sighing weary, and He wraps us up in Love.
I surrender everything in that embrace, letting go, breathing it all out, laying it all down, trusting Him with the truth of all my weakness, knowing He has offered everything—His life, His blood—to see me safe. And I want to stay there every hour, hidden in His strength (Colossians 3:3), inhaling the spicy scent of His power, holy and pure. I feel His arms about my back, that real, and I hear Him whisper,
“Abide.”
I am the vine; you are the branches. If a man remains in me and I in him, he will bear much fruit; apart from me, you can do nothing (John 15:5).
O Love that wilt not let me go,
I rest my weary soul in thee;
I give thee back the life I owe,
That in thine ocean depths its flow
May richer, fuller be (~George Matheson).
