It has been a week of weak. All strength crumpled on down in that pile of broken. The aorta pinched tight. The heart dying right there wearing high heeled boots, and you, the walking dead reach for something to hold you hard down. Makes you wonder if you'll ever be the same. And wouldn't that just be a fine thing? To be truly changed? To be different this time?
I miss all the strength of him. The way his arms wrap hard and hold. The way he carries the weight of our world on his strong Shoulders. Losing himself for our gain, and, yes... sometimes losing my heart along the way. He says that I am his rib, but sure I am a broken one. Barely able to support his chest cavity, the home of his heart, and causing him pain that is beyond bearing. Flights, trips, conference calls, the full court press. The pressure to provide for all these hungry bellies, and music lessons, and a school where God is still the King causes a pulling away. A great tearing of flesh away from flesh. Killing Adam. Breaking his Rib.
And though our hearts have fallen down the broken well, we cry out HIS Name. We reach for the higher way and the Holy Road. Narrow. Our feet travel on gathering dust, but our hands weave together in a life that stretches out into more unfolding. We fall into Him, the Rock of our salvation. And trust.
The Glue that holds us,