My son is home from Afghanistan
for precious few days of leave,
hearts gathered near to love him hard
before he returns.
It’s sweetness so sharp it hurts deep
and steps heavy on my buried landmines,
the debris somehow beautiful
because it’s true.
There is so much pain in love
and I’m thick wrapped
and undone,
life’s lens turned in sharp,
the focus so crisp that I’m raw,
from standing in the clarity
with a naked heart,
not rushing for cover,
or for habit,
or for busy.
Just this fresh grated grace raining down all fat and gentle
soaking my soul bare through,
until all of me is showing,
the parts I’d rather tuck away safe
and here I am
all disheveled
and unraveled,
and awkward
and spastic
with love.
and full up with words that aren’t enough,
and with pain that shows through messy
and I’m squeamish at the weakness seeping through
as I lose the pretending,
and go all true and slow,
until I’m still enough
to let Love’s eyes meet mine
and, once again,
the gentleness breaks me
and my hands and heart roll open
and I let the scared and trembling insides of me
take comfort and shelter,
and shamelessly love and be loved.
Can there be anything braver than love?
“We are so limited, you have to use the same word for loving Rosaleen
as you do for loving Coke with peanuts.
Isn’t that a shame we don’t have many more ways to say it?”
-Sue Monk Kidd
“The Secret Life of Bees”
