7:35 pm / stay gentle

All my life I have wondered at the way things seemed to move me. It could be the smallest moments, but they would grab at my heart.

Like the first time my chest tightened at the sight of a tiny coastal town with its abandoned restaurant; its one bar, the two or three hotels and apartments lining the beach. Or the rectangular vacation homes in their bright colors and hanging seashells all strung up along railings and over doors. Then, further down the main street, a yellow candy shop with its ice cream and shaved ice and twinkle lights hanging over the entire porch. Or that time Brooklyn and I walked along the beach left behind by a receding tide and I kept saying, doesn’t this move you? And I'd point out to the dancing water way out on the horizon and ask again. I must've forgotten, but she kept saying, no, no not really. I mean, it’s beautiful, but…

All I remember is how strange it felt to know that there were living things burrowing in the sand beneath our feet. It made me tread carefully, made me want to tiptoe, to ask permission.

Then, that one evening when we watched the sunset explode over the water as we sat on a log at the entrance to the state park and she wept, racking sobs. A stranger kept walking around us, as if confused by this display of emotion, while I did the only thing I knew how. I listened to her cry. I let the flaming colors of tangerine and stucco light up the waving ocean in front of us as it swept up to our toes, fell back, then crashed down again. The world went silent.

Or, that time a woman came up to my counter at work and broke down over a credit card payment. It was late and there was no one in line, so she cracked open her story and flipped open to a page. Here, here is where the pain lives. It turned out her brother had cancer and was refusing treatment. Not because of beliefs, but from a lack of funds, a lack of good doctors in his area. This stranger's voice shook as she indicated with her hands the vastness of the miles between them. Then, how short of a window the doctors had given her brother. An ache.

If I'm honest, I know I’m waiting for summer. I am waiting for a replay of last year and the times I couldn't get my heart to quiet down from all the expanding it was doing. These cold months make me want to retreat into numbness, into a routine. Mostly, into safety. Because caring can hurt. Asking questions can mean risking disappointment. Vulnerability and authenticity means that if people minimize, mock, or hush, they are wielding a knife when you stand weaponless. Yet, even in the heart of winter, there are moments I'm prompted to see the sacredness that this day and minute can hold. I am reminded that allowing life and people's stories to move me takes strength. That it's okay if people don't understand, if they chisel away at my heart. I want to pay attention to moments when we're driving up to the snow-capped mountain range rising like cathedrals in front of us and passing through rustic towns with their diners and gas stations and white chapels. Moments when I'm taking deep breaths in clean air that smells of dirt and leaves. Or, when I'm feeling the wind in my hair sweep me away as I stand at the mouth of a valley, or seeing the sun catch between tree branches, illuminating a field of ferns as tall as my shoulders. Good and perfect gifts. Little things: a sunrise of apricot and rose chiffon when I don't want to face the day. Thick, patchy clouds in every color of ash, white, and bruised purple and thinking I'd never seen anything more beautiful.

Or having a young boy find me at work and frantically ask me if I've seen his brother. No, no I haven't, but I can page him. My voice is hesitant as I speak over the intercom, but it echoes clearly back at me overhead. I walk the boy to customer service where his brother is waiting. I see the smile, the relief, and he punches the younger boy in the arm. What were you thinking? He says.

In every season, I’m having to take a step back and listen to the reminders to stay soft. To remain open to life despite the risks. While situations and voices scream at me to close my eyes, to curl up and crawl away, I’m praying for the courage to remain. To stand my ground. To show up. To sit across from pain and questions, shake their hand, and allow God to meet us in our brokenness and uncertainty.

I'm certain that here, in the light of vulnerability, is where life begins and can continue.