to be full of days

i picked up my bible last night, and watched as it fell open to the book of job. then my eyes fell on a description of the man. the man who was tested and tried. who stayed true to his faith in the midst of unspeakable loss. the bible describes him as a man "full of days." i read the verse slowly and thought about it. what it means to be full of days. full of minutes, seconds. moments and events. about life as a noun. a collection of interactions. of sunrises and evenings. coffee in the mornings and the blue light of nighttime television. if we really tried, life can be contained and sorted. organized and laid out in a domino-like procession.

but it's also a devastatingly beautiful assembly of the in-between. the kisses under the covers with the lamplight on. sunshine sifting through car windows at a red light. a silent hug. a hot cup of tea at three in the afternoon.

there are experiences that simply don't fit into the schema of "days." yes, monday is a workday. but it's also the one day a week i get to cook for robert. the evening we take a walk. free movie code day at redbox. but so often, all i see is the workday, and fail to see the outlying grace that falls just outside the definition.

job lived 140 years. if i'm lucky, i'll live a little over half of that. and i want to reach the end of my life full of days. but more than that, so much more than that, i want to be full of life.

i don't think i'll ever live long enough to absorb the resplendence of this earth. but little by little, i can learn to squeeze the most out of my time here. to restructure my week from seven distinct time frames into thousands of little joys. it will happen slowly. but as job reminded me, most good things usually do take some time.

sunset soon forgotten

i got to bed late last night. it wasn't for lack of trying. goodness knows, i tried.

tried to slip under the covers before eleven. to feel the cool of just-washed linens slip over my nightgown. to replace the glow of laptop and lamp light with the deep, infinite darkness of bed. to take down my ponytail  and let my hair fall carelessly over my pillowcase.

but life got in the way. errands. little menial tasks that meant nothing but added up to hours. dishes. playing with pablo. reality television. etsy.

with my sleepy eyes finally closing, and sleep threatening to wash over me and pull me over the brink any minute, i listened for a second. and felt.

i heard robert breathing heavily behind me. this deep, hearty breath. i'm used to it and barely notice it. but last night i made an effort to take it in. to turn and watch his chest rise and sink with the steady rhythm of a midnight pendulum. i heard pablo too. a raspy little puff of air every few seconds. as i looked up at the bedroom ceiling, i let their collective breath pull me to sleep. the sync of it, paired with the sweet melody it created, was intoxicating.

and right before i fell, i thanked the Lord for such a sweet sound. how many times i take for granted the living beings that share my bed. their breath gentle in my ear. the creatures that i have been blessed to love and listen to.

and i do this so often. take things for granted. become so, so used to something that it loses its grandeur.

--like the feel of cool hardwood on my bare toes in the early hours of the morning, when the world is asleep but i'm reaching toward the coffee pot.

--the house i pass on my drive to work every morning, always stuck behind the school bus. the little boy who lives in that clapboard shack. running with unbelievable fervor toward the bus, blowing kisses to his mama, waving from the driveway in her robe and slippers.

--the little basil plant on my windowsill, still reaching its meager leaves toward the sunshine. hanging on even after being stripped of most of its green.

--the sound of robert coming home after work. his muddy boots. yes, even the mud. a sign that he loves me and will do whatever it takes to make a home for me.

--the delicious heat of an evening shower. taken with the bathroom lights off, the adjacent office light bathing the room in a soft glow.

i will take all these things in, and be thankful. because they are all gifts that could be taken in an instant. little, tangible proof that God loves me, i am worthy,

and life is unforgettably beautiful.

california road trip 2010