When I had confessed an affair, and everything we knew about ourselves felt like a lie, I stood soaking wet outside the shower, grief dripping down. My shoulders in his hands, he asked my forgiveness, and he gave me mine.
And I wanted him forever, again, but he wouldn’t have me without spending it all so we could start from scratch, we making another promise before God, this time to keep.
He said he didn’t want Big anymore, enough with this big house. He said enough with wanting to go big, making promises we’d be big enough to do all the big things it takes to be just good enough.
From now on, we decided together: we are small. We are valuable, translucent green, new.
So now tonight in this small, cold apartment, I want to hear the quiet click of my fingers on this keyboard. I want to write it out.
It’s been three years since he gave it to me, this necklace that falls to my sun-spotted collar bone above my now growing belly, fourth child coming along.
How small we’re becoming in this growing family. How he tapped my knee under the table at supper, and how quietly he says under the roar of our little boys, “I like you a lot.”
The secret to our stayed love is our littleness, watching God bring His swooping wing low – how exponentially magnified He becomes if we acknowledge our humble position.
By Amber HainesLeave a Comment