Sleep won't come to a restless mind, so I find myself going for a midnight stroll around the yard.
The air is heavy and damp and engulfs me with a sticky chill, and I don't feel much like walking.
Standing is good.
So that's what I'm doing, standing in the middle of the yard, uncombed hair in a messy bun,
wearing a faded Scooby Doo t-shirt topped with a cable-knit cardigan, comfy yoga pants, and
pink flip-flops.
Oh...and I'm crying.
Thank God it's nighttime but, then again, there are no next-door neighbors to worry about up
here on the ridge.
Hmph. God.
I haven't been on speaking terms with Him lately. Not sure why. Maybe I haven't felt worthy.
Guilt does that. But I've done nothing wrong. What do I have to feel guilty about?
Maybe I'm just scared. I've never felt this way–so confused–before. Why did we ever meet if he
isn't meant for me? If I'm not meant to be a part of his life? If it's wrong, why would God allow
it? And not just permit it, but orchestrate it. Because I know He did. It's too perfect not to be of
Him. But there's that fucking guilt again, causing another tug of war between my heart (him) and
my conscience (my “commitment” - I can't even say he's my husband)) that will end as usual, in
a soul-crushing, faith-questioning stalemate.
I look up into the sky. "Dear God, please! Father, help me understand," I'm begging, staring at
the moon. It's the closest thing to heaven that has a face I can see.
My cries turn to sobs, and I fall to my knees. It rained earlier today and these yoga pants waste
no time in wicking the moisture from the soggy soil. But I don't care. I want answers, and I'm not
done with God yet.
And I know He isn't finished with me.