March skies scatter snow over our lives again. This winter has given us 120 days of falling flakes—or at least that’s what they say. Gazing through the window, my spirit goes a little numb, like my feet would if I bared them outside right now. My focus on the scene dulls.
“This is endless,” I say to the people in my house. And there’s that E-word again.
If I didn’t say it out loud, I thought it thousands of times in the months caring for my dying father, a post-bone marrow transplant patient. I’ve said it about health and dental concerns that span years with no resolution. And I’ve walked like it’s true through decades of stubborn circumstances that affect our family.
Two weeks ago, I saw our realtor, a good friend now after what we survived together in our home-buying ordeal.
“We’ve been in the house a year now,” I said. “Can you believe it?”
“Have you seen a therapist?” She said. “You should still see a therapist.”
I told her no, I haven’t, but had she? I reminded her she suffered the brunt of the maltreatment, trying to shield us from a belligerent seller bent on driving us out of our purchase agreement. Her mention, though, summoned memories of those terrible fifteen months—the injury we sustained from standing, the anxiety over what was stolen from us, the frequent illnesses from stress, THE ENDLESS.
I waited in The Quiet many times in those months, speaking the same words I said today over something as silly as snow. But one day was different.
“This is endless,” I said into the silence.
My love is endless.
I sat in the truth that day, wrecked by the response, reduced by peace, soothed by love.
No worth-the-wait platitudes. No promises of an ending date. No guarantee of a satisfied conclusion. Only pervasive, persistent, perpetual love.
I try to watch my mouth, aware of the weight of calling something that is not as though it were. But when I slip up and let the E-word spill out, those better words come back, and my soul knows the beautiful reality.
My love is endless.
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*Names in this blog have been changed to protect my family, neighbors, and friends in the neighborhood, and in a nod of appreciation to the beloved Swedish author Maj Lindman, I’ve renamed my three blondies Flicka, Ricka, and Dicka.