. On The Broken Ones .

It was a fervent prayer, usually late at night.

Lord, I would whisper into the dark quiet. Send me a friend. 

I'm not sure where the prayer originated, but it went on for years. It became a chant. Begging, really. A humble beg to God. Asking. 

And in the middle of me burning down a marriage. 
In the middle of me walking away from something that just wasn't for me. 

There he was. 

And he came to me with both of his arms wide open, his broken heart still so clearly visible in his chest. I shrugged my shoulders at him, my own arms open. 

This is what I have to offer you. Rubble. Burned and broken rubble that was still smoldering. 

I often think of us walking together in some kind of precarious dance. (Kinda because his leg is currently broken.) Two steps forward, one step back. 

There are new things together.
Oddly satisfying joint decisions. 
Even weirder times that I defer to him. 

(And everyone that knows me knows that I'm not the deferring type.)

Each and every single thing - one more step. One more brick placed. One more pump of a sewn back together heart. 

"You seem calmer," Mary said to me today at lunch. 

And I feel it. More centered. Less pressured. Less like I have to shine as bright as I can every second of every day, so that people don't peek behind the curtain. 

"You seem like you've taken a deep breath this year," she said. 

And I have. 

The other night, we were at a really good friend's wedding. We didn't dance, and as we left, I side-eyed the hell out of him. "Foley, you owe me a dance when we get home," I called as I got in the car. He shook his head at me. 

And that night, slowly, with a man that was nursing a broken leg, we danced.  

And I couldn't help but think. 

As the music quietly played. 
And as his warm palm held mine.
And as I whispered the words to him.

That even the broken hearted ones. 

Even the broken ones. 

Even then.
Even then.

Even after years of fervent prayer during dark nights.

Even then.

He always hears us. 

​xoxo, B. ​