here we are

I can’t remember a time when I didn’t know you.

I mean, of course, I can.

I lived 20 years before I met you.   20 full years.

But somehow in your quest to know my story - the days, hours, years - the seasons - I lived before our hearts began their journey together – you have, in fact, in some mysterious way, become part of my whole story – even the parts you weren’t actually present for.

Sometimes I forget how much life we’ve actually lived together.

Sometimes I forget how much you’ve seen me through.

Sometimes I forget how much of me you’ve seen.

It’s true: you have seen me.  

You have seen past my attempts to hide, 
                right straight through my half-answers and avoidance tactics.  
You have seen me through the veil of your tears - you have seen me sitting in a pool of my own - week after week, month after month.
You have seen the passions and longings of my heart,
     and you have echoed them back to me in my seasons of forgetfulness.

You have seen me at my best,
                                            on the mountain top, doing my victory dance.  

You have seen me in the depths,
                                                                in the darkness, in the muck.

And never have you demanded an apology for what you see.

Never have you asked me to be anything I am not.

Not once have you been scared away by my honesty. In fact, you crave it. 
                   I’m pretty sure you have a full-on addiction to truth.

You see fully, and still you ask to know more.

Oh, how you ask.

Oh, how I love how you ask.

The inquisitive kind of questions, born of an insatiable curiousity.

The thumb-tack-on-your-chair kinds of questions.

 Why settle for "how are you" when you can ask "who are you"?

 Why settle for "what do you do" when you can ask "what brings you life"?

The questions that come out of frustration. Why? How long?

How long? 

How long, indeed.

You have taught me to embrace the season,
                                           even if it feels like it will never end.

You have taught me to be present where I am.

You celebrate when it is time to celebrate.

You grieve when it is time to grieve.

And when you have no idea what it is time for, you just keep digging.

It can’t hurt to till the soil, right?

And so we keep on tilling.

We dig our knees into the dirt once more, and with the sun beating down on our backs, we plunge our hands into the soil, and continue the seemingly endless task of sorting out the rocks, breaking up the clumps, one by one.

Sometimes we work in silence.

Sometimes we chatter away.

Sometimes we laugh so hard that we cry.

Sometimes we cry so hard that we laugh.

Sometimes we wonder if it will ever be more than just dirt.
Sometimes it seems impossible to believe that there will be anything
but acres, upon acres of brown.

But, here's to the brown.   Here's to the mud. 
Here's to the hope of green.
Here's to the seeds that will hopefully be planted at some point, and to the sprouts that will maybe, somehow, by some miracle, find their way to the light of day.
Here's to the laughter and the tears.
Here's to the truth that we hold to.     Here's to the truth that holds us.
Here's to living the questions. 
Here's to being seen and known and understood.
Here's to choosing gratitude.
Here's to being together, in all our brokenness.

Here's to being here.               Wherever here is.