Across The Dark

Last weekend, H and I spent one night away. A couples retreat. It was so cold when we walked outside, I thought my face had fallen off. We ran together in the dark, hoping bits of sand and gravel strewn across the path would keep our feet beneath us. He ran ahead of me and I used his body like a shield against the wind - one hand gripping his arm, the other hand squeezing a wad of his jacket. Tight.


We sat around a fire in the dark and told our "how we met each other" stories while our shadows danced behind us on the wall. When there were only embers in the fireplace, we bundled up and stepped outside again to run back down the hill. I looked up at stars that had been broadcast overhead with wild abandon. "Look up!" I cried to whoever might hear me. "Look up!" And I felt his hand strong beneath my arm, because my feet had gotten all mixed up - not sure whether I'd decided to run down the hill, or stand still to gaze at embers burning in the sky.

Later, I would tell the story of our seventh year of marriage, and how I knew my words might tear it all apart. I only gave the overview - not much detail at all. Because the sensational part can sometimes cloud the part I want them to hear. I want them to know that he has always done this. H has always held me strong when I get all mixed up. Even when he's had every right to just let go and let me fall. 

In our seventh year, when H chose not to let me fall, he chose forgiveness instead, and he taught me something spectacular about God. It was the first time I knew - beyond a shadow of a doubt - that forgiveness is for real, and forgiveness is not cheap, and it is a rare and magnificent thing to have it strewn across the dark with wild abandon, so your feet find solid ground when there is really no place left to stand at all.