UNSENTIMENTAL TENDERNESS

Anna Kolosyuk  on unsplash.com

I nearly died 13 years ago. More than once. For 2 years we were uncertain if I’d ever regain my health.

Thankfully, I did. Mostly. My life has settled into a new norm. Some days it’s chickens and I manage my responsibilities famously. Other days, it’s feathers, and I need a nap.

Back then I told God I’d always be grateful. I am.

I can go days without thinking about that horrifying span of history. Then something will bubble up. A sunset, a game of tag with my granddaughter, a waft of honeysuckle. And I remember how thankful I am to not be substratum for a gravestone.

Mostly I do not take for granted the blessed privilege of celebrating life daily with people. Sharing a meal with my grown children - who by God’s grace were not left orphans. Weeping with a friend over loss. Or rejoicing with my daughter about her new job.

Jubilant delight. Raucous laughter. Soulful duets. Comfortable silence. Quiet whispers. Joint prayers. These are all so precious to me.

I regard this fragile wispy thing we call life with unsentimental tenderness. A sort of detached intimacy, in which I acknowledge the unpredictability and brevity while embracing relationships and experiences.

I have tasted death. Life is all the more precious. Relationships become priority over things. And celebrating is a pleasant mandate. May I ever be grateful.