Eternal Longing

This post is being written by a man in longing. The love of his life is spending time with her family in México lindo, and while she is away, his heart just does not beat the same.

Without her, the things he loves simply are not that exciting anymore. Watching movies was something fun, but in the absence of her lovely arm to rest his hand on, the stories lose their interest. Getting up in the morning is simply that–no one sleeping to watch over. Eating is a chore with no one with whom to share the table. Only in the solace of his writing studio can this man find relief.

And this man talked with her yesterday. My wife, Ana, and I had a wonderful talk as we caught each other up on the events that are happening in our respective locations in the world, as well as the places that our hearts have been going. Through the course of the conversation we exhausted nearly every possible subject between husband and wife: books we’re reading, current projects, people we’ve spoken to, family news, progress on the house, news from the church, and yes, how very much we miss each other (This part is too mushy to detail for you, dear reader.). Despite the fact that I could think of nothing else to say or scrap up one more thought to throw at her, I found myself dreading the inevitable. That moment when we both hit the red button on our Skype window to disconnect.

After the call had ended, I sat there in my office wanting more, yet there was nothing left to say! Life must take its time to accrue more subjects and circumstances for me to convey to her. Even in my desperation to keep her close, to ensure that she never leaves my heart’s side, I must find the patience to wait for more things to say. When she is here, we don’t have to wait for things to say. She’s here; I’m here, and that’s all that is necessary. But now, she’s not here, and I must wait for words.

When I write, it’s like that. I end the day’s word count thinking of the morning to come when I will be back up the stairs to my studio pounding the keyboard. When I rock my son to sleep, it’s like that. My arms are tired and my back aches, yet I eagerly wait for the night to come again so I can watch his tired eyelids fall slowly while gazing up at me. When I pray, it’s like that. After all of the words have been exhausted, I feel a dull ache in my chest thinking of the day when words will not have to be spoken while in the joy of being present with the first Love of my life. My only consolation is that I can pray yet again–when life has accrued more words for me to say.