THE INNER WORKINGS...

He knows.

Yesterday Mom closed the door to the already-sold house that she and Dad had been living in for the last nine years, and drove away. It's another step on a too-hard-to-walk-through journey. It's another goodbye. And this is what I wrote to God last night in my journal. I hope it will serve as a "middle-of-the-story" bookmark of what God is saying, doing, and being.

The house on Pine Drive is gone. Mom and Dad don't live there anymore. No more snow-filled patios. No more lake views. No more matching recliners. No more garage and no more corvette.

And I know that Dad isn't in that space. But the space connects us with him. It's where I last saw him. It's where he was just sitting in his recliner looking at his atlas planning their next road trip. It's Christmases and Thanksgivings and hospital visits and golf cart rides and puzzles and conversations and us.

And now there's no more space. It's gone.

Sometimes I can't believe that he's gone. In a moment. One moment he was here, the next he was gone. And I wish he wasn't gone. I wish he was falling asleep in his recliner next to mom on her computer... watching football or the Lakers or even Fox News. But he's not. And now that room doesn't even exist - in a way. He's really gone. The house is really gone. Oklahoma is really gone. And I wish it wasn't. I miss him.

Oh Lord, I miss him.

And I know You know. And I'm grateful that You know. And I'm grateful that you see in front of and behind the curtain. You see Dad: body healed, faith fulfilled, heart free. And you see me: heart broken, tears running down my face, with a missing and a yearning and a longing for something I'll never have again. And I know You see. And You hold. And You care.

You exist on both sides of the curtain, so both things can be true. My tears and Dad's worship. Both are true. My ripped-apart heart and Dad's faith fulfilled. Both are true. The empty recliner on Pine Drive and Christ on the throne - where Dad is watching. Both are true. Ashes. Beauty. Both are true. Death. Life. Both are true.

Thank You for welcoming my heavy and broken heart. Thank You for not shunning my tears - or worse, ignoring them. Thank you for not waiting for me to "get with the program" or hurry up and see the promise at the end of the rainbow. Thank you for giving me space to say, "This hurts."

And thank You for saying, "I know, daughter. I know."

posted by Courtney @ 11:28 PM