It was almost midnight when she noticed it. The lightning was painting the southern sky, with flashes of cinder and smoke. She called me to the window, and then to the door… we walked outside barefoot, breathless by the intoxication of the moment.
For what seemed like hours, Jamie and I sat in the grass looking out far, far away. The lightning was so distant that we could not even hear the assumed crashes of thunder. She wondered how far away the storm was, or if the cold front was going to collide with our warm air in the mountains.
We began to reflect on our journey, home. This season is serving its purpose: to bring healing to the wounds of our last exit. We talked about the southern drift, and the distance from our roots in West Michigan. We wondered about the toll such a transition would take on our daughters, who still cling to the memories of sand-castles and sleepovers, neighborhood friends, and a church family that disappeared overnight.
However violent the repressed memories are, we hold on to the joy that remains. We have proved them all wrong. We are stronger than their whispers. We are unfinished.
And tomorrow, is a mystery. That door is locked and bolted shut for now. All we can do is celebrate the moment of our resurrection, and watch the heavens declare the glory of God.