Thin Places and the People There

My life.  Some days.

I’ve been in some very thin places today.

I held a sweet baby, smaller than any of mine ever were, and was once again amazed at the miracle of life.  As I looked into his eyes, my soul was touched by something inexplicable, something so dear.  A love beyond understanding.

I stood and held on to a brother who watched his friend get hit by a car as he was crossing the street four days ago, and I was saddened by the frailty of life.

I listened as one of my sisterfriends said that the step that was most influential in her recovery was the first one–accepting that you have an addiction–and I was moved by the spirit and resiliency of a life choosing between the comfort of brokenness and the scariness of healing.

The sweet baby, the one who came early, seems so fragile and yet he is a living, breathing body of strength and a sign of hope.  He is growing and taking it all in, and all who are around love him more each day.

My friend Mac held back the tears as he told me about the accident.  He had no idea what was happening until it did.  He hasn’t slept since then, he says.  His friend camped with him a lot of nights, and now I think he feels even more alone.  He can’t get information about his friend–today as he choked up, Mac told me he didn’t even know if he was still alive.  We checked the obituaries and did not find him there.   So there’s that.  But Mac seemed resigned to the not knowing.  He has a lot that happens that he just has to accept in his life, being in the situation he’s in.  He’s used to being invisible.  But he would like to know how his friend is.  And I wish I could help him.  He became more visibly upset as he talked about the accident.  Finally he said, “I gotta go.” And he hugged me and told me that if nobody had told me that they loved me today, he did.  And he held on for an extra second.  Bless him.  He’s lost so much in life.  Things he could have changed, but even more he could not.

As my sisterfriend talked about that first step in recovery, she said, “You can say you have an addiction all day long, but until you accept that you do, you’re not going anywhere.  That’s a major step.”  As we talked some more, I asked her, “Is that something like accepting you aren’t in charge?”  She smiled her big, beautiful smile and all but winked.  She pointed at me and nodded.  “Yep.”

Life and death and the beauty and brokenness of life.  All in about a two-hour time span.  I felt shaken this afternoon and unsure of my steps and really quite small all of a sudden.  Those of you who know me might chuckle over that–but I said small, not short. Overwhelmed even. As I stood in my kitchen, about to make our supper, I felt as though I were Alice as she shrunk to a very tiny size.  (Didn’t she do that?  I haven’t watched it in ages–it really troubles me, that one.)  As I moved around with this new perspective, all I felt was humbled.

Humbled and touched beyond words that I was blessed to be a part of these three stories today.  It is no small thing to be invited into to someone else’s story.  And tonight I’m thankful for the precious people, these people I’ve grown to love and call my own, who let me in and shared their pain and heartache, strength, wisdom, and joy.

All tucked away in my heart for safekeeping.  A treasure for sure.

Love to all.