Just Do It

The tears, they sprang, then leaked narrow rivulets down my warm cheeks, a language all their own, they spoke sweetly, tenderly. Watching memories unfold, precious layers of forty years springing to life before us on white screen, forty years since husband and I spoke sacred sacrament, "I Do!" We were babies, how did we ever get here? Odds were against us! All those mistakes and arguments! The gift, all week I wondered at the super-power it possessed, the sound alone, intoning unabashed humility. A coat of armour it is, this gift that shrouds disagreements, wraps up mistakes with blanket of grace and says, I-forgive-you-even-though-it-might-take-a-while-for-me-to-feel-it-completely. For the boulders in stomach to morph into tiny pebbles. When son made toast and we clinked glasses my mind spun like cotton candy. With bare souls and sleeves rolled up, we heart-muscled through rough terrain, trod foreign territory, almost gave up, got back up, shook off dust, took one more timid step. Stumbling again, took another step and yet another. Forgiveness is our shield against the past, our strength in present. Nelson Mandela once said, "Forgiveness frees the soul." It lays to rest the unrest. Surely White-Out for regret. When we proclaimed forty years ago, "I Do," eyesight was poor and now His light shines on those weaknesses, caressing the past and performing first-aid to all wrongs and saying yes to life, and thank you for trying and helping and just being there. Just Being. A new light waves bright, shimmering across brown spots on hands and creases around eyes.

And with heart limber and free, the light shines brighter and clearer and on days when getting up is hard, just doing it, the picking it all up and starting over is magnificently OK.

 

And at times when I can't remember what the date is, or why I walked into the room, I recall what truly matters.

 

 

A pristine melody, gleeful voice rings true, muscling past all conjecture and pretense, innocently pronouncing, "I Do It!"

 

 

and the scrapes and bruises are gifts too I count, they mark like growth notches on door, beautiful with grit, we learn just how to Do It all over again.

I didn't start to count until Ann Voskamp taught me how. But once I tasted the sweet, liberating taste of forgiveness, and journeyed under crazy umbrella of amazing grace for forty years,

the easy part is to just do it, to praise and say thank you. The two we raised grasp tight His hand, and I think I hear the noise, the joyful, the harmonious voice, it rings translucent, unfeigned, and whispers,

I watched you on the dance floor those forty-three years ago, swaddled you both tight, yes babies you were, I am a promise keeper, and I've never, not once, ever let you both go.