We’ve passed over Havana when the tears begin streaming down my face. Uninvited. Quiet.

I didn’t know they were right under the surface, just waiting for enough stillness to emerge.

Survival has been my mode for so long that I just assumed it’s what life requires. Not that less is demanded of me now, but like a dog sniffing into the autumn wind, I’m sensing a change.

Let’s just say that our house was never featured on anyone’s Pinterest board. Nor was it ever the chosen location for anyone’s baby/bridal shower. Twice, in fact, separate friend-groups staged an intervention in response to my pioneering pastor-man’s stress level.

Hurting

I tumble into bed with knots in my stomach and grief in my throat. Dear people with good intentions lost in labyrinths of longings and allegiances. I love them. I can’t fix it. I can’t sleep. I can’t…

It’s been 23 years since these words first pierced me with promises I didn’t understand: “Ask the Lord for rain in the time of the latter rain.” (Zechariah 10:1a)

“Miles and miles away, My Darling,” her smokey, dreamy voice breathes golden melancholy into my indigo evening. “But in the blue of morning the break of dawn has come / And I’m watching the horizon / Where yesterday has gone.”