She looked up from her vanilla reindeer drink with glistening eyes and found the courage to whisper “the dreamer in me is broken.” I thought for a moment; careful to avoid a rushed response that would dishonor her vulnerability. We sat together in sacred silence for a few moments before we sensed a permission to continue with words.
Spring. I love the way that the light lingers through the dinner hour and I no longer feel like my reality is characterized by darkness. I love the warmth of the sun on my face as I listen to the melting snow and ice. I love that our neighborhood bursts forth with new life as we collectively emerge from our sub-zero hibernation.
In the church I usually attend there is always room for a seat buffer. Always enough space to stay hidden and unnoticed. Always enough space to avoid eye contact. Always enough space to keep to myself. Always enough space to do my thing (consume) and leave.
Last Sunday I attended a small and cozy space, much different from what I’m used to. There was no seat buffer.
Reading to our son Nash is one of our most beloved rhythms. We enter a world where time stands still and pages spring to life.
I can still remember the very first story Kate and I ever read to Nash. We settled into bed, our infant son swaddled between us, and we opened “On the Night You Were Born” by Nancy Tillman. I managed three words before I was a mess. (The I cannot speak another word variety). Gratitude and thankfulness poured out of me.