Love and distance

PART TWO

Dad had this trump card growing up. You see, when he was about my age, he started on a journey of his own. Only, much less enchanting than mine, he decided to walk the appalachian trail... All of it. Georgia to Maine. Pretty cool, until your 11 years old and (what seemed like) all the kids and definitely the Coach ridiculed you for your beliefs; so, naturally you want to quit. But, because of this card, he would say "you're 11 and privileged enough to be on a soccer team. You'll get through it. I walked 1900 miles with boots so worn you didn't know what they were if they weren't on my feet and blisters the size of golfballs." Although paraphrased a bit, he insinuated that I didn't know what "hard" was... and he was right. And although now I still have yet to venture northbound on foot further than to the local gas station, I've come to find that "hard" has introduced itself to me in another form.

Today I got a letter from my sweet Wynona Judd (most refer to her as Fiona). She simply wrote that she wanted me to come back from California and that she was really excited about sleeping in my room... that was the deal, you see. Once I left, I cleaned my room out and it became the nieces. They are so dear though and keep calling it MY room. Secretly, a little part of me hopes that that will never change because if it doesn't, they'll remember the times we spent in it playing barbies, dress up, tickling on my bed, or having dance parties.... but most importantly, they'll just remember times when I was there.

And that was all. That was all she had to say. A few simple sentences that my mom wrote as Fiona was saying them alongside a personal signature in her own handwriting. And then all of the sudden I knew "hard". It wasn't as toilsome on my body as my dad's. It isn't as uncommon as my dad's feat, nor is it quit as noble... but man, it's rough all the same. In fact, I would take physical pain over this any day. Physical pain has an end in sight, or hope of a near end... or at the very worst, medication to help. What is supposed to be subscribed to a person who holds all of their heart in their chest but knows that pieces are missing.

And you know what strikes me the most peculiar, here I am an adult... fully capable of making my own decisions, visualizing the future, and then making those said decisions to create the future seen. That is not a hard thing, it's done everyday. Today I think, oh, we're low on milk. Then I picture myself working that errand into my tomorrow activities. Finally, when the sun comes back up again, I simply conquer that mission set out before me. Elementary right? Until BOOM! Four little babies come into my world, alongside one handsome young man. They are innocent and precious and pure. They need you and you take much delight in their presence. And although they can't yet talk or function really, all along, they are sneakily confiscating little bits of your heart unnoticed until one day you wake up and the thought of days without them takes your breath away, much like a surprise punch to the gut. And all of your plans have been changed. A once enchanting adventure of lands unknown becomes bittersweet. And as an adult, I never quite saw that coming.

But it's beautiful really. To quote the ever loved philosopher Winnie the Pooh- "How lucky am I to have something that makes saying goodbye so hard." But I don't just have something... I have an army of something's. I am coming to find that once you love a certain depth, you can never really have one home again. You are a bearer of many homes, of many loves. And that my friends is a most splendid heart throb! A throb that if you've ever experience, you know you've been blessed.