Today, the rains come, flooding the streets and taking out the electricity with a snap of its windy wrist. The lake writhes with the marks of torrential abuse and there are a few moments on the drive home where I wonder briefly if we’ll make it. I wonder if I’ll get to hear his voice at all. Today, given the choice, I would gladly buy him a ticket home, or, better, me a ticket to him. Better to be rained on together rather than apart.
My roommate jokes that she’s going to buy us a set of those long-distance pillows, the kind that lights up whenever you’re sweetheart is sleeping. Apparently, it records their heartbeat and you can fall asleep listening to it. We laugh because it’s such a disturbing idea and I can’t get the image of my pillow flipping on and off at the most inconvenient times, like team meetings at work or Skype dates with my mom.
This Friday marks a month since he left. It’s not like he’ll be gone forever–I know that. In the not too distant future, I will drive myself to the Atlanta airport and wait with bated breath for him to come into the arrivals gate. I’m not a runner, but I have every intention of sprinting to him then.
It’s just that today, Mozambique feels really, really far away.
The internet goes out at six thirteen pm for the last time. We’ve been talking ten minutes at a time (with forty-five minute intermissions) for an hour, and I’m aching with the shortness of it all. It is one thirteen am in Mozambique where he is, so I tell him not to worry about calling me back. It’s late there; he needs to sleep.
My roommate brings me pizza in our room. She’s good to me, too good when I’m emotional like I am tonight. She does exactly what I need–puts the plate down on my bed and leaves me be.
For a long moment I just lay on my bed and watch the rain shoot almost horizontally across a smeared sky. My heart is heavy with longing and readiness for him to be here. I am ready for him to come home.
I feel ashamed for a minute, like I shouldn’t admit this out loud. I don’t want to burden him with the knowledge of my readiness. I don’t want him to feel guilty for going; we both know the Lord called him to the field before we were called to each other.
And then I think of all the times I have felt unwanted because no one told me what I meant to them. I think of all the moments when the enemy used the doubt of my importance to someone to feed into the lies skillfully threaded through my heart. And I realize that I don’t for a minute want him to doubt me, not ever.
Better to be told every day that he is missed, than to have one day where he wonders if I think of him.
[so here it is. i miss you.]
Better to be written more often, than to doubt his importance.
[and here we go. i’m writing again.]
Better to risk it, because he is worth it, than to hold back and have him fear that he is not.
[you have always been worth it.]