Mile Marker 42

I am so not dignified. Really. It’s mildly embarrassing how giddy I get when I’m about to see my man. When I arrived home Sunday night after a busy run of travel, I had a smile on my face before I even exited the plane.

My grin broadened as I walked through the terminal and climbed on board the train. Random people smiled back.

My joy grew by increments of warm fuzzies and mild goofiness as the train came to a stop.

I nearly bounded up the escalator before remembering, Come now, Elsa, professional women don’t bound.

Finally. I scanned the crowd. Caught glimpse of that smile. Threw decorum to the wind and bounded into my man’s strong arms and melted against his chest.

Oh, how I love coming home.

That was just the beginning. We gathered the luggage, jumped in the car and headed south. With each mile marker, my sense of expectation grew.

Mile marker 163… getting close.

Mile marker 200. The magic number.

Home!

I walked in the door to puppies jumping, and my girl squealing “Mommy!”

Yes, she’s 19. Yes, she still squeals “Mommy!”

Oh, how I love coming home.

As I lay in bed that night, content and warm, the thought came to mind: I have another home too.

And when I get there, my Savior will meet me at the gate. Broad smile, twinkling eyes, ready embrace. Without decorum, I will bound into his arms and melt into his love.

I’ll turn to see my dad, my nephew, my brother and my grandparents.

I’m at mile marker 42.  Not sure where the exit is, but the sense of expectation is growing.  Some day…. One day…. we’ll all be home. And if I’m goofy giddy at the prospect of my earthly home, I can’t imagine how explosive the joy will be when I bound into the arms of my Savior.

 

Oh, how I will love coming home.

Quiet and courage

Danielle, me and Caleb – 1996ish

Just a few days before Caleb’s accident

I want to make it better.

I want to walk in the door with Caleb on my arm. I want to bring him back to his mom and dad right now.

This life can be so hard.

There is no coming back for Caleb.

He is not here. And I sense his absence in the quiet.  It’s not a normal quiet. Not an empty nest quiet. It’s a robbed nest quiet. It feels unnatural and wrong.

I love my brother and I love his wife. I love my nephew, Luke and beautiful Danielle.

And I love Caleb.

I miss him.

This house, here in Austin, is filled with quiet and courage. The quiet of Caleb’s absence and the courage of a family who valiantly lives forward without him.  They are so beautiful to me, even in sorrow. I love and admire and respect them. They hold tight to Jesus and walk this road the best they can.

But I still wish I could make it better.

Lord, I wish I could make it better.

That’s all I have to say about that.