I married my first wife, Danielle, 10 years ago today. I guess all these years have been piling up, coming and going, passing us by, and some of you are new around here, and so it is that I have to tell you that she died less than 3 years later. The Cancer. Always The Cancer.
I'm happily married again, and I know not what to do with all the grace and blessing God has shown to me over the years. As the country song says, "I don't even remember who I was back then", but I also think that we are at times too rough on our past selves...
...and perhaps too easy on our current selves. I'm not sure.
To love and be loved at all must mean the willingness to risk limping around the rest of your life, wounded to your core, oh this lovely effervescent wound. Burning. It is the very duty of love to carry it around until the daylight of this life grows long and golden, as it does.
I believe duty is good.
To be loved at all, by anybody, for a time, no matter how short is grace lighting a torch against the encroaching torrents of swirling darkness threatening to engulf the world.
The mere memory of love lost is worth carrying around, for we declare, with bated breath, that all this present horror was once not so, and will not always be so.
Every sad little love story: a brick thrown against the darkness.
And so we keep carrying these sad little love stories around with us. It was the least we could do.