Saint Patrick’s Day morning brushed the sky an hour ago with a red caress, dimming to a gentle rose, then to a waning, creamy yellow. That too faded, leaving only gray stratus stealing overhead from the west. Snow and rain are in the forecast for today, March 17, 2017. Somewhere up there, up above the clouds, the sun is shining, but I cannot see it.
Today Lisa is leaving. Her Ford Explorer is already packed. In a while, her oldest daughter, son-in-law, and their toddler will arrive to load her larger belongings into a trailer and accompany her, along with her beloved cat, Siam, back to Missouri.
It is good. It is God. My prayers of more than eight years for Lisa are being answered—not in a way I had anticipated, but in the way that is best. For Lisa will once again, at long last, be with her four children, and now with her grandbabies as well. A mother whose heart was broken is being reunited with those she loves most, now grown, who ten years ago were ripped away from her in the most unjust and painful circumstances. For all of them, the long journey apart is about to end. It is time for the restoration of hearts—above all, of Lisa’s heart. No one except Lisa herself knows better than I the importance of this season of new beginnings. For I have seen, I have seen with my eyes and with my own heart, the great love and the terrible, deep longing Lisa has borne within her every day for her three daughters and her son—for Sophia, Olivia, Shannan, and Jeffrey. Now at last they will be together again. It is wonderful, and beautiful, and so very, very right.
But it comes at a great cost. This apartment, infused with Lisa’s presence, will be empty without her. Most of whatever she leaves behind will serve only as memories. Even her glasses that remain in the cupboard—stout, solid glasses whose functionality I appreciate as a man—will have her name on them in my heart. Our relationship has been so odd, so utterly out of the norm in today’s time and culture. It has never been the stuff of a romance novel. But it is most certainly a great love story that the Lord has written on the pages of our lives.
This is enough for now. Lisa is finishing with packing her vehicle, and her daughter, son-in-law, and grandson will be arriving soon.
* * *Facebook post, about 1:30 p.m.
She is gone. My dear Lisa. My heart goes with her. I stood by the roadside at the end of the parking lot and watched her white Ford Explorer head down the road behind her daughter and son-in-law's car, turn right, and disappear, bound for her long journey to Missouri to be with her children and grandchildren. It is very painful, but it is also wonderful, and good, and so very much the Lord's heart and the answer to prayer. The restoration of a mother with her children, and the healing of hearts, is worth the price of loss and tears. God bless you, Lisa, my dear one, and Shannan, Olivia, Jeffrey, and Sophia. Your mama is on her way home at last.
So it is that my eight-year journey with Lisa comes to an end. I sit now in my usual spot in the couch in the living room, from which vantage point nothing seems to have changed. Across the room from me, my work station looks the same, and to the right, the dining room table is in its usual place. Outside the sliding door, the bird traffic remains constant at the feeder, and from the kitchen comes the familiar hum of the refrigerator.
But at the end of the hall, the door to Lisa’s room is open and the room is empty.
Lisa is probably somewhere near Chicago by now. The same stratus deck that coats the sky overhead with a uniform pale gray also covers eastern Illinois. But not far to its west, according to the satellite, Lisa will break out swiftly into the sunlight and enjoy clear skies for the rest of her trip to her new home. Here it will remain cloudy and cold. Oddly, though, a while ago a single roll of thunder rumbled gently over Hastings. I liked that, and Lisa would have too.
It is strange that I can grieve and yet feel such peace. It is the Lord’s peace. He is with me here, as surely as he is with Lisa, and I sense his care for me. I am brokenhearted but not broken, for there is a wholeness and grace that comes from knowing I have fulfilled his will, a blessing that comes from dying that life may spring forth. It is what Jesus did for us; it is what Lisa did for her children; it is what I have done for her; it is what all of us who love him must do, in whatever ways he has uniquely ordained for each of us, if we are ever to love powerfully and redemptively. It is part of the fellowship of his suffering, and it is a great, great honor. To love another person as Jesus loves them, however imperfect a job we make of it, is worth everything—because that person is worth everything to Jesus. Everything. That is how he sees them, and he has a way of causing us to see them that same way.
Lisa, pearl of great price.
I will reorganize this apartment, now mine entirely to do with as I will. I will move things into Lisa’s room, and I will transfer the clutter out of the side room into the large walk-in closet, and my life will go on. Last I knew, the world didn’t stop revolving at 1:30 this afternoon. Seems like it should have, at least for a couple of seconds—that would have been appropriate—but when I check my email, I see that I’m still getting the usual idiot spam advertising “Toe nail fungus removal . . . by tonight!” (exactly what I’ve been craving; how do they read my mind?) and “Mark Cuban Q&A on the habits that made him so rich” (like I care a rodent’s rectum).
Yes, I will move on, for that is how this kind of thing is done. For now, though, I will let things be. What’s the hurry? There is no hurry, none at all. I will finish writing this piece and publish it in my blog, and then I will go get something to eat, for I am famished. I will think of Lisa, so dear to my heart, and of her children, so dear to hers, and I will pray for her and for them. Later this evening I will head over to my close friend Ed’s house and watch Fringe episodes on DVD. (Thank you, Lord, for good friends who know me and love me). And finally, I will return home, and hopefully sleep well, and this momentous Saint Patrick’s Day will end very different from when it dawned.