A few years back, I looked in the mirror and saw pain. It was raw and I fought to not pick up something, anything to protect myself. I was tired of bleeding out from the heart. But I looked again at my reflection. I did not want to lose this thing; this living life. I made a choice one particular day. And I had it inked over my heart so the next time, and the time after that and the time after that I would see it in the mirror. Azar. Hebrew. God is my defender. God is. I decided to believe that.
Seven years have come and gone. That ink still stands out on my skin and reminds me. Life has seen some really good days, days of promise, since then. But life is not a straight line. In that life? That same life where weddings happened and money came in unexpected and I trumped some odds I didn't expect to? My dad, a man who always seemed to know what to do, who was insatiably positive and curious about life, became confused and received a diagnosis we did not see coming and went to heaven way sooner than I'd have chosen. My kids moved farther than my money could take me and I had to let go. It hurt so much I could feel it in my bones.
Tonight I find myself curled up on my couch, thinking back. Looking ahead. It's hard, this living thing. Surprises aren't always good ones. People don't always do what they're supposed to. Words aren't always gifts. Joy, seeing it around you when you don't feel it, seems violent to the heart. Amongst unbelievable goodness, there are jolts that rock your world and cause your teeth to chatter. This I've found though. That choice I made? It was to stay soft, to choose to be soft, in the middle of the hard. To not let rough, crusty patches form where I bleed.
Because of that? The soft has become a welcome mat for others. And that is the unexpected gift.
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