This morning, I’m still tired. I know he’s tired, because in the notes we leave each other in the morning (lately, the only way we’ve “talked” at all), he told me so.
But, amid the weariness and exhaustion, despite the despair that threatens me and the gloom that looms near, even with the huge lists that won’t get done and the knowledge that the light at the end of the tunnel might be attached to a freight train…even so, I feel rested in a way I haven’t for at least a month.
It’s been a hard couple of weeks around our house. It doesn’t matter why or how, not really. I’ve been reminding myself of that a lot lately. The cross I bear, the cross Jesus shows me how to embrace, will be heavy. It will be uncomfortable. It will push me to my limits.
But there is joy in accepting, though I can never see that coming when I sigh and reluctantly hold out my arms. There is comfort in knowing that beside me, carrying the most difficult part, is my Father’s Son.
And there are the quiet evenings, spent with the gift of my husband, to refresh me and give me what I need to keep on going.