It builds slowly over time. It's an anticipation like no other, and I've been fortunate to anticipate some pretty big things. It starts out in my belly and rises up like a volcano. My whole body jitters and shakes and I feel like I'm going to explode out of my skin.
I can't help looking for you everywhere. I can't help searching out your sound, your smell, your presence. Your imprint is carried around in my soul, and it pops up randomly.
The worst is the immense experience of seeing the plane land, knowing you're no longer miles and miles away, and that all that separates us is feet. Feet! My eyes search for you among the bodies, as if your eyes are the only eyes on the planet that can save me. So I search, and then... there you are! The seconds it takes between our connection feel like eight million hours! My lungs inhale as if they haven't experienced oxygen in ages.
Your hands go around my waist and every single muscle, every single cell, relaxes. My whole body lets go. My whole body calms down. All of the tension of hundreds of sleepless nights, waterfalls of tears, lonely moments, the waiting and waiting and waiting is finally over.
It's like the most magnificent explosion of fireworks in my soul, and the calmest, most peaceful and beautiful river you've ever seen.
I've done it so many times. It never gets old. Never. I love figuring out what to wear. I love imagining what your eyes will want to see me in, for the first time in what felt like forever. I love when it's over. I love when we're us again.
Monday, June 29, 2015
Friday, June 26, 2015
Marathon
Sometimes I forget that You're doing something in me. Sometimes I want what I want right now, and the idea of waiting and working and changing and growing becomes exhausting and heavy and overwhelming. Sometimes I feel like screaming and raging at You and throwing a full.fledged.temper.tantrum, and sometimes I feel like sobbing, and sometimes I just sit still with You, asking you to help me be better... asking You to give me more time.
I'm a mess.
I make a thousand professions of confidence and belief and peace. When a scenario plays out differently from what I want, in comes the You NEVER do what I want! comments, so indicative of the mind of a child. I am a child, Your child.
Truth is, I feel so sad. It's the strangest thing to be both overwhelmingly sad, and joyful at the same time. It's bizarre to ache for what I don't have next to me, while grateful for the opportunity to grow and expand my relationship with You. Will I ever stop being such a contradiction in terms and desires? How can I want Your will and my own? How can I live like my will must be Yours, or you don't "love me"? What kind of screwed up notion of love is that? Do I love my children that way? Or my husband? Or my friends?
Why do I demand that your plans be mine, as if I know what's best?
The mind of an immature child...
The truth is, You know I've been sitting here wallowing. The truth is, You know I've also been whispering that I will trust in Your reasons. Does trusting mean, no emotion? Because I feel grief. What a joy it is that You've given me someone whose absence causes my heart so much grief! How blessed I am. You give, You take away. Job's words, that have permeated throughout my heart over the years. You've given me life, You will take it away. You've given me Love. You've given me more than I can actually comprehend, deeper than I can understand. You've walked me through the depths of solitude, challenged me with abandonment, shown me the darkest pits of suffering, where there aren't words to define. You've built a heart in me able to withstand, and overcome, and Love. You've given me a heart that has to Love. It has no other option. It kills me sometimes, Beloved. It hurts like hell to love like this.
So, I'm not alone, but yet alone at the same time. It's strange, isn't it? And all praise to You for Your plan. I never would have envisioned a more perfect plan. I never could have fathomed a life like this!
This one has been tough, Father. In some ways I don't want it to end, but in so many more I'm counting down a celebratory cheer to its end. This year of basic training has broken me, rebuilt me, changed me. I am not the same. I'm thankful for that.
As it nears its end, I wonder what's next. Where will we go from here? What will the road look like? Nevermind. I don't want to know. If I focus too far ahead of myself, I lose sight of what's right in front of me. One of the lessons you've been challenging me on... living for today. Letting go of what's behind, stopping trying to brace for/prepare for/anticipate for what's to come... living for the now. Loving in the now. Recognizing that I have no control over what's about to happen. It's in Your hands. What glorious Hands they are!
I feel joy here, Father, in this place. Joy and sorrow. Comfort and solitude. Loneliness and love. I miss my companion. It hurts.
Thank You for sitting with me while I wallow. And not pointing out what could or should or would be different. Thank You for the freedom to hurt, while also knowing that Your picture is better than mine. Thank You for not mandating how my heart handles things. Thank You for giving me the space and love to be who I am. A mess.
My eyes are on the Prize. I'm running the Marathon to finish it. Mind over body. One footfall after the next. I'm not stopping.
I'm a mess.
I make a thousand professions of confidence and belief and peace. When a scenario plays out differently from what I want, in comes the You NEVER do what I want! comments, so indicative of the mind of a child. I am a child, Your child.
Truth is, I feel so sad. It's the strangest thing to be both overwhelmingly sad, and joyful at the same time. It's bizarre to ache for what I don't have next to me, while grateful for the opportunity to grow and expand my relationship with You. Will I ever stop being such a contradiction in terms and desires? How can I want Your will and my own? How can I live like my will must be Yours, or you don't "love me"? What kind of screwed up notion of love is that? Do I love my children that way? Or my husband? Or my friends?
Why do I demand that your plans be mine, as if I know what's best?
The mind of an immature child...
The truth is, You know I've been sitting here wallowing. The truth is, You know I've also been whispering that I will trust in Your reasons. Does trusting mean, no emotion? Because I feel grief. What a joy it is that You've given me someone whose absence causes my heart so much grief! How blessed I am. You give, You take away. Job's words, that have permeated throughout my heart over the years. You've given me life, You will take it away. You've given me Love. You've given me more than I can actually comprehend, deeper than I can understand. You've walked me through the depths of solitude, challenged me with abandonment, shown me the darkest pits of suffering, where there aren't words to define. You've built a heart in me able to withstand, and overcome, and Love. You've given me a heart that has to Love. It has no other option. It kills me sometimes, Beloved. It hurts like hell to love like this.
So, I'm not alone, but yet alone at the same time. It's strange, isn't it? And all praise to You for Your plan. I never would have envisioned a more perfect plan. I never could have fathomed a life like this!
This one has been tough, Father. In some ways I don't want it to end, but in so many more I'm counting down a celebratory cheer to its end. This year of basic training has broken me, rebuilt me, changed me. I am not the same. I'm thankful for that.
As it nears its end, I wonder what's next. Where will we go from here? What will the road look like? Nevermind. I don't want to know. If I focus too far ahead of myself, I lose sight of what's right in front of me. One of the lessons you've been challenging me on... living for today. Letting go of what's behind, stopping trying to brace for/prepare for/anticipate for what's to come... living for the now. Loving in the now. Recognizing that I have no control over what's about to happen. It's in Your hands. What glorious Hands they are!
I feel joy here, Father, in this place. Joy and sorrow. Comfort and solitude. Loneliness and love. I miss my companion. It hurts.
Thank You for sitting with me while I wallow. And not pointing out what could or should or would be different. Thank You for the freedom to hurt, while also knowing that Your picture is better than mine. Thank You for not mandating how my heart handles things. Thank You for giving me the space and love to be who I am. A mess.
My eyes are on the Prize. I'm running the Marathon to finish it. Mind over body. One footfall after the next. I'm not stopping.
Maybe
Maybe if I was better with words, I'd figure out how to write out what my body experiences when you walk in the room. Maybe I'd be able to explain how the image of your face in my brain floods my body with all sorts of feelings that I don't know how to communicate. Maybe I'd be able to explain what it's like to sit next to you, your leg accidentally brushing up against mine... my whole heart beats in my chest, my stomach flip flops, my palms sweat.
How many years has it been now baby?
Maybe if I was more eloquent, I'd figure out how to not fall all over myself with trying to not scream. Every single night without you feels like an eternity in suffering. It feels like I'm in a dark pit, or a pitch black room, and I'm just waiting and listening for the footsteps that I hope will come and turn the lights back on.
You're the one who has the balls to untangle the mess I make of myself. You're the person who knows how fragile I can be. You're the person who sees me at my worst, and understands the intentions and best thought out plans underneath, and knows I'll figure it out, eventually.
Maybe if I knew how to be more mesmerizing, I'd figure out how to say that your breath on the back of my neck lulls me to sleep. Maybe I'd tell you that you're the warm that wraps me in rest. Maybe I'd be able to explain that trying to sleep without you is an exercise in futility. Something happens, I don't know I'd call it "sleep".
Remember how I used to make you sleep under a different blanket from me? Remember how I used to withdraw from your touch? Remember how much I used to hate to be close? I was like a rabid person... touch was dangerous. Overwhelming. You were the gunslinger that shot that armor up.
Maybe if I was able to communicate more effectively, I'd tell you that sometimes I pretend like you're sitting here next to me. I close my eyes, wrap myself up in your clothes, and imagine... Maybe if I wasn't so ridiculous I wouldn't be embarrassed by how much that sadly comforts me. It's better than nothing.
Maybe if things were different, you'd be here and we would be tangled up, sleeping peacefully.
Maybe if you were better with words, you'd figure out how to say all this same stuff to me. But I'm not, and you're not, so we just know because we do. Some things can't be said, they have to be felt.
How many years has it been now baby?
Maybe if I was more eloquent, I'd figure out how to not fall all over myself with trying to not scream. Every single night without you feels like an eternity in suffering. It feels like I'm in a dark pit, or a pitch black room, and I'm just waiting and listening for the footsteps that I hope will come and turn the lights back on.
You're the one who has the balls to untangle the mess I make of myself. You're the person who knows how fragile I can be. You're the person who sees me at my worst, and understands the intentions and best thought out plans underneath, and knows I'll figure it out, eventually.
Maybe if I knew how to be more mesmerizing, I'd figure out how to say that your breath on the back of my neck lulls me to sleep. Maybe I'd tell you that you're the warm that wraps me in rest. Maybe I'd be able to explain that trying to sleep without you is an exercise in futility. Something happens, I don't know I'd call it "sleep".
Remember how I used to make you sleep under a different blanket from me? Remember how I used to withdraw from your touch? Remember how much I used to hate to be close? I was like a rabid person... touch was dangerous. Overwhelming. You were the gunslinger that shot that armor up.
Maybe if I was able to communicate more effectively, I'd tell you that sometimes I pretend like you're sitting here next to me. I close my eyes, wrap myself up in your clothes, and imagine... Maybe if I wasn't so ridiculous I wouldn't be embarrassed by how much that sadly comforts me. It's better than nothing.
Maybe if things were different, you'd be here and we would be tangled up, sleeping peacefully.
Maybe if you were better with words, you'd figure out how to say all this same stuff to me. But I'm not, and you're not, so we just know because we do. Some things can't be said, they have to be felt.
Wednesday, June 24, 2015
Broken bones
I'm sitting here in my living room, wrapped in an afghan, cup of coffee beside me, listening. I'm listening to the noises going on around me: my children singing songs and talking to each other, my brain swollen and sore from a recent injury, my arm: broken and wounded...
I'm alive.
I was riding my bike with my Newfoundland, as I do almost every day. A number of situations came in to play that were unusual, on this particular day. We hadn't ridden in several days because of a medication I'm on that needs me to not be out in the sun. My bike was shaking and handling funny, so I slowed down to get off of it, when a neighbor's unleashed dog came out around a vehicle to approach me. My dog (who can pull up to a 1,000 lb cart), yanked hard (part pent up energy from no walk, and part wanting to play with a dog, and part puppy nonsense that has trouble with impulse control) and launched me about 10 feet over my handle bars and on to the ground. I heard my head hit the ground. I felt the impact.
I was dazed, stunned, and a plethora of medical crises education washed over. Assess, assess, assess. I sat up, and my neighbors crowded around.
Are you all right?
Just give me a minute. I just need a minute. What happened? Where am I? Can I move? Oh my gosh! I'm on the ground. I can sit. I can move my feet, and my legs and my arms. Oh my arm! My arm hurts.
You're bleeding. Your bleeding really bad.
I looked over and saw blood dripping down my arm from my shoulder. The skin was gone and gravel was embedded. It's going to suck scrubbing that out...
Boe was freaking out with confusion. He was so excited to be outside, but now I'm being surrounded by people. I remember watching him trying to figure out what to do. He wasn't sure if he should be playing or protecting, or enjoying some attention. I told him to chillax and he laid down.
I asked a neighbor to make sure my eyes were not shaking, and that my pupils were even. I was slightly dizzy, but nothing overly intense. I knew that my head was the first priority, the rest could be dealt with. Brain's bleeding and whatnot are no good, no matter the situation.
A neighbor helped me home, along with my children. I wanted to get in the shower as soon as possible. I needed to scrub the gravel out of the left side of my body (shoulder, hip, leg, arm), and there was so much surface area to deal with that I knew a shower would be easiest. Adrenaline stops pumping relatively quickly and it's more helpful to navigate extreme pain when it's still flooding the system.
I took off my helmet, and glanced down. The foam was shattered. It was still intact because the plastic pieces are glued to the foam, but the foam was completely broken. My neighbor said I heard your head hit the ground from inside my house. That's why I came out. Wow.
In the shower, as soon as the water hit, the adrenaline wore off. I screamed, I mean actually screamed. The pain was undefinable. I soaped up and scrubbed. I knew it was going to hurt. I also knew it had to be done. Infection is nothing to mess with. My kids ran for the first aid kit, so I could treat and dress the wounds after I got out.
When I got out of the shower, the pain in my arm surged. Trying to dry off and get dressed was practically impossible. I screamed through the entire ordeal. This was not the horrible skin pain of shredding off flesh, this was deeper... it was bone pain. I will deal with this after I address the bleeding...
I gauzed, wrapped, and bacitracin'd my cuts. Then I went to the arm. Can I move it? Can I touch it? Is this muscular or bone? It was here I discovered that my arm would not lift about a ninety degree angle. Crap... I might have to go to the ER...
The kids grabbed ice packs, while I elevated my arm. My head was starting to really hurt. I started sobbing. Not out of self pity. The pain was very intense. I called Chief, who told me to go to the ER. I argued, because that's my nature, but he was right so I went.
The triage nurse was concerned by how calm I was. In fact, she was quite concerned, especially given my head injury. The took me off to X ray very quickly. I screamed and cried through the entire experience. It was agonizingly painful. But I knew that when it was over, it'd be over.
I broke my arm on the tip of the radius. It's tiny, but it's leaking bone marrow tissue out into the surrounding tissue. No cast, because of the location of the break. Just a sling and ice. I can't take any pain medications because of the brain injury. Pain meds increase bleeding risks, so my body is navigating this injury all on its own.
Pain is powerful. My body is telling me it's hurt. It's telling me to slow down, rest, stop.
I'm alive.
No, I won't be riding with Boe anymore. I am not mad at him in any capacity. He's a dog and he was doing what dog's do. I just know it's not worth the risk. I'll have to come up with a new way to give him the joy of hard physical work, without risking my life. Anyone have a cart they'd care to share? ;)
I am in a decent amount of pain. But to be honest, this accident has filled my heart with joy. Why, you might be wondering? Because I didn't die. Seriously. If you saw my helmet, you would maybe understand. In that singular moment, if I had not had a helmet on, it could have been my brain on the pavement. The story could have ended with my children watching me die in the street. It could have been with a funeral, instead of a broken, painful arm. I'll take the arm. I'll take the extra days, minutes, hours, to tell my children how much I love them. I want the extra moments to share with them the things that I've learned, and the joy I feel in being their Mom. I want the extra days to kiss my husband and wake up in this beautiful life I am so fortunate to live.
I'm alive!
I celebrate life. I celebrate one more chance to pour out my life, my love, my heart into the world around me.
Our time is running out. It's the craziest thought, but it's immensely powerful. We have a limited number of unknown days on this planet, and our time is running out. There isn't enough time to share it all. There isn't enough time to love enough. There isn't enough time to say all I want to say...
I'm sitting here in my living room listening. I can hear my children building and creating lego cities. I can hear my body healing itself and demanding rest. I can feel the love of my husband pouring out from miles away. I feel joy. I feel gratitude. I'm alive.
I'm alive.
I was riding my bike with my Newfoundland, as I do almost every day. A number of situations came in to play that were unusual, on this particular day. We hadn't ridden in several days because of a medication I'm on that needs me to not be out in the sun. My bike was shaking and handling funny, so I slowed down to get off of it, when a neighbor's unleashed dog came out around a vehicle to approach me. My dog (who can pull up to a 1,000 lb cart), yanked hard (part pent up energy from no walk, and part wanting to play with a dog, and part puppy nonsense that has trouble with impulse control) and launched me about 10 feet over my handle bars and on to the ground. I heard my head hit the ground. I felt the impact.
I was dazed, stunned, and a plethora of medical crises education washed over. Assess, assess, assess. I sat up, and my neighbors crowded around.
Are you all right?
Just give me a minute. I just need a minute. What happened? Where am I? Can I move? Oh my gosh! I'm on the ground. I can sit. I can move my feet, and my legs and my arms. Oh my arm! My arm hurts.
You're bleeding. Your bleeding really bad.
I looked over and saw blood dripping down my arm from my shoulder. The skin was gone and gravel was embedded. It's going to suck scrubbing that out...
Boe was freaking out with confusion. He was so excited to be outside, but now I'm being surrounded by people. I remember watching him trying to figure out what to do. He wasn't sure if he should be playing or protecting, or enjoying some attention. I told him to chillax and he laid down.
I asked a neighbor to make sure my eyes were not shaking, and that my pupils were even. I was slightly dizzy, but nothing overly intense. I knew that my head was the first priority, the rest could be dealt with. Brain's bleeding and whatnot are no good, no matter the situation.
A neighbor helped me home, along with my children. I wanted to get in the shower as soon as possible. I needed to scrub the gravel out of the left side of my body (shoulder, hip, leg, arm), and there was so much surface area to deal with that I knew a shower would be easiest. Adrenaline stops pumping relatively quickly and it's more helpful to navigate extreme pain when it's still flooding the system.
I took off my helmet, and glanced down. The foam was shattered. It was still intact because the plastic pieces are glued to the foam, but the foam was completely broken. My neighbor said I heard your head hit the ground from inside my house. That's why I came out. Wow.
In the shower, as soon as the water hit, the adrenaline wore off. I screamed, I mean actually screamed. The pain was undefinable. I soaped up and scrubbed. I knew it was going to hurt. I also knew it had to be done. Infection is nothing to mess with. My kids ran for the first aid kit, so I could treat and dress the wounds after I got out.
When I got out of the shower, the pain in my arm surged. Trying to dry off and get dressed was practically impossible. I screamed through the entire ordeal. This was not the horrible skin pain of shredding off flesh, this was deeper... it was bone pain. I will deal with this after I address the bleeding...
I gauzed, wrapped, and bacitracin'd my cuts. Then I went to the arm. Can I move it? Can I touch it? Is this muscular or bone? It was here I discovered that my arm would not lift about a ninety degree angle. Crap... I might have to go to the ER...
The kids grabbed ice packs, while I elevated my arm. My head was starting to really hurt. I started sobbing. Not out of self pity. The pain was very intense. I called Chief, who told me to go to the ER. I argued, because that's my nature, but he was right so I went.
The triage nurse was concerned by how calm I was. In fact, she was quite concerned, especially given my head injury. The took me off to X ray very quickly. I screamed and cried through the entire experience. It was agonizingly painful. But I knew that when it was over, it'd be over.
I broke my arm on the tip of the radius. It's tiny, but it's leaking bone marrow tissue out into the surrounding tissue. No cast, because of the location of the break. Just a sling and ice. I can't take any pain medications because of the brain injury. Pain meds increase bleeding risks, so my body is navigating this injury all on its own.
Pain is powerful. My body is telling me it's hurt. It's telling me to slow down, rest, stop.
I'm alive.
No, I won't be riding with Boe anymore. I am not mad at him in any capacity. He's a dog and he was doing what dog's do. I just know it's not worth the risk. I'll have to come up with a new way to give him the joy of hard physical work, without risking my life. Anyone have a cart they'd care to share? ;)
I am in a decent amount of pain. But to be honest, this accident has filled my heart with joy. Why, you might be wondering? Because I didn't die. Seriously. If you saw my helmet, you would maybe understand. In that singular moment, if I had not had a helmet on, it could have been my brain on the pavement. The story could have ended with my children watching me die in the street. It could have been with a funeral, instead of a broken, painful arm. I'll take the arm. I'll take the extra days, minutes, hours, to tell my children how much I love them. I want the extra moments to share with them the things that I've learned, and the joy I feel in being their Mom. I want the extra days to kiss my husband and wake up in this beautiful life I am so fortunate to live.
I'm alive!
I celebrate life. I celebrate one more chance to pour out my life, my love, my heart into the world around me.
Our time is running out. It's the craziest thought, but it's immensely powerful. We have a limited number of unknown days on this planet, and our time is running out. There isn't enough time to share it all. There isn't enough time to love enough. There isn't enough time to say all I want to say...
I'm sitting here in my living room listening. I can hear my children building and creating lego cities. I can hear my body healing itself and demanding rest. I can feel the love of my husband pouring out from miles away. I feel joy. I feel gratitude. I'm alive.
Tuesday, June 2, 2015
At this point the sucker punches are beginning to get to me. The prayerful dialogue is contorting from Give me peace. Help me to navigate this. To What the FRICK!?!?!?! WHAT ARE YOU DOING!?!?!?!?!
It's strange to see yourself and recognize your plethora of weaknesses. It's easy to think that you're resilient and strong, when things are going well. Start peppering in daily disappointments, daily let downs, daily emergencies/disasters, and the mental/emotional resolve dissipates quickly. It's bizarre to be so utterly alone. It hurts.
But the truth is, there really isn't anything for anyone to say. And the truth is, I don't really know how to even talk about it. I'm exhausted. I'm a child. True to my childish ways, I want what I want and I feel like if I could only have that one thing, then everything else would be better.
It doesn't work like that.
It never has. No, not in the I'm-feeling-sorry-for-myself kind of way (I am feeling sorry for myself, America. I will be clear about that), but more in the sense that things are rarely what you imagine them to be (or what you perceive they will be). Life is so much more unpredictable than all that. Thank the Lord! Otherwise I'd be bored to tears! I am struck, by wanting a little less excitement. I'm sobbing because I have to watch all of these people around me have all of these things that they've always wanted, while I have so little of it.
This is not what I imagined. Or maybe it's exactly what I imagined and that's why I'm so freaking pissed about it all. I wish I didn't know things. I wish I could be less alone. I wish I could be noticed beyond the projection. I wish I could stop feeling like I've been hollowed out. I wish he was here. I wish, I wish, I wish.
I wish I didn't wish for those things.
The trouble is figuring out how to hurt, comfortably. The reality is that I'm grieving, and these peppered in "disasters" are pecking away at the shell I have wrapped around the big giant hurt that I don't have time, or much desire, to deal with. Maybe I don't have the skills.
I wish I couldn't see things from so many angles. I envy the oblivious. I envy the naive. I want to know less. Knowledge brings so much pain with it. How can you know and not be burdened to act? How can you see and erase it from your mind? I am haunted.
The thing is, America, he fixes my brokenness. That's what he was created for. He was made to help me do whatever it is that I'm supposed to do. He leaves, to remind me that he is not my Protector (in the final sense), but rather He is. My Creator envies for my single focus, and He reminds me of my deepest need: Him.
It's strange to see yourself and recognize your plethora of weaknesses. It's easy to think that you're resilient and strong, when things are going well. Start peppering in daily disappointments, daily let downs, daily emergencies/disasters, and the mental/emotional resolve dissipates quickly. It's bizarre to be so utterly alone. It hurts.
But the truth is, there really isn't anything for anyone to say. And the truth is, I don't really know how to even talk about it. I'm exhausted. I'm a child. True to my childish ways, I want what I want and I feel like if I could only have that one thing, then everything else would be better.
It doesn't work like that.
It never has. No, not in the I'm-feeling-sorry-for-myself kind of way (I am feeling sorry for myself, America. I will be clear about that), but more in the sense that things are rarely what you imagine them to be (or what you perceive they will be). Life is so much more unpredictable than all that. Thank the Lord! Otherwise I'd be bored to tears! I am struck, by wanting a little less excitement. I'm sobbing because I have to watch all of these people around me have all of these things that they've always wanted, while I have so little of it.
This is not what I imagined. Or maybe it's exactly what I imagined and that's why I'm so freaking pissed about it all. I wish I didn't know things. I wish I could be less alone. I wish I could be noticed beyond the projection. I wish I could stop feeling like I've been hollowed out. I wish he was here. I wish, I wish, I wish.
I wish I didn't wish for those things.
The trouble is figuring out how to hurt, comfortably. The reality is that I'm grieving, and these peppered in "disasters" are pecking away at the shell I have wrapped around the big giant hurt that I don't have time, or much desire, to deal with. Maybe I don't have the skills.
I wish I couldn't see things from so many angles. I envy the oblivious. I envy the naive. I want to know less. Knowledge brings so much pain with it. How can you know and not be burdened to act? How can you see and erase it from your mind? I am haunted.
The thing is, America, he fixes my brokenness. That's what he was created for. He was made to help me do whatever it is that I'm supposed to do. He leaves, to remind me that he is not my Protector (in the final sense), but rather He is. My Creator envies for my single focus, and He reminds me of my deepest need: Him.
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