The way she laughs.
The shine in his eye. The curious
smirk on his face.
These are the marks of my family. Marks I wish never to forget.
No day is promised to us.
It should be very likely a day to come that is not filled with the words
of my father’s wisdom, my mother’s compassionate murmur, or my brother’s
endless knowledge. Quiet walls. When wrongness comes the space between is
quiet and hearts fall dim.
With every ounce of my soul I wish they knew the Love
that is greater than my own. The Love
that landed the stars in the sky, that causes the moon to rise, and the sun to
shine on the gardenias in their garden.
Oh, how it were that my father’s hand would be at the
pages of a Bible or on the wood of a pew.
That my mother’s thoughts filled with delight in unending grace. That my brother’s ears heard prayers of love
and justice and atoning sacrifice.
But alas, in a world all too familiar, they stand. Unsaved.
Scared. Unknowing.
And I hear nothing from God, but, “Love.”
Loving them means tenderness and gentleness, a giving I
feel time does not afford.
But still I hear His voice say, “Wait,” and only, “Love.”
Love will draw them near.
And so I love. I
love with a love not of this world. Not
quick to anger or condemn, but lighting a path akin to those lit for planes,
for flight, for direction.
I whisper, “Follow me,” in the small hope that they hear
my Father’s loving voice—but not just my Father, no, the Father that gave them
wind to laugh, hands to garden, and hearts to love. The Father that formed them long before I
knew them or they knew me.
And I wait.
I wait for the moment they say, “We hear.”
And though I fear that day I may not meet, though I
underestimate the power of an all-powerful God, though I question the very God
who brought I as a lost sheep to Him, my candle burns with the undying hope
that perhaps.
Just perhaps.
And that time will then have no venture in our love. That money will not dictate time spent
together, but that our wisps of lives on this earth are all met with eternity.
Eternity where God holds us near, and love is complete
and pain has been ushered to the unmentioned realm.
Perhaps.
Love. Waits.
And so shall I never abandon, but fight with the quiet fervor
as a warrior of The King, despicably desperate for all to be reached and for
all to reach Him. For it is His heart
and His heart alone that propels the very world, and the only loss is given at
the unknowing of He who made us, loves us, and wants us.
Here in lies the great meaning, we must lose our lives to
be saved, but can’t do so until loss beckons our name. Which voice shall be ultimately heard? Which answered? I hope in favor of the Father, the Redeemer
of the Lost.
