But even as the tears get in the way of the typing, God sends the sun peaking through the clouds at me. And the sound of a tractor so I know my husband is near. Comfort and warmth from my man and my God.
My father was a man of few words. When he said something to you, you listened. His wisdom wasn’t diluted with nothingness; his words were true and clear as a bell. But between times you often were left wondering what he was thinking.
I didn’t know until a year before he died that he knew and accepted the way into Heaven.
So my anniversary sorrow is gilded with gold. The treasure of knowing we will be together again. These words dry my tears even now as I write them to myself.
Knowing our Saviour is a gift I don’t know what I would do without. How do others go on? Move on? He’s the core that sustains me when winds blow and rains drench. It’s the hope emanating from Jesus’ grip on my soul that picks me up and nudges me forward
to take the first, hardest step;
to put on my game face and reach for the goal.
Then in the stepping, comes the praise and joy, even in the midst of sorrow. To some, an oxymoron. To me, a right-now reality.
…Weeping may endure for a night
But joy comes in the morning.