Savannah Jaye

Do you remember the last time we saw each other?

You held my hand and pulled me in.
Wrapping your arms around me.
Embracing me. Engulfing me.
Allowing us that one last moment of solidarity.

I recall breathing you in long and hard,
and thinking about how I may never get to smell your scent again.
Because I understood, even then, that it was our possibility.
Between my tears and heart breaks I tried my best to savor what was left of us.

And, after a time, I could feel you loosening your grip.
Feel you letting go. Feel you forming your final farewells.
And it was then that I first felt you slowly slipping from me,
as if you were an elusive fog that I knew I would never be able to catch up with again.

In this moment a normal girl would have let you go on your way.
She would have held back her tears long enough for you to be out of sight.
But I am not a normal girl, I am a lingerer.
And I will always be a lingerer.
So in that moment I resolved to do what it is that lingerers do best.
And I lingered.

Holding on for just a bit longer,
attempting to hide the last remaining tears with my head buried in your shoulder.
When I finally felt strong enough to release my clasp,
I was greeted with a kiss on the forehead and one last squeeze of my hand.
And there was your goodbye,
Almost oblivious to our too true future that we were accepting without so much as a fight.

The last time we saw each other you were standing on the other side of airport security, waving goodbye, with what appeared to be feet between us already feeling like millions of miles.

for a long time i thought you were an anchor.
heavy and unyielding.
awkward and bulky.
you took everything i thought and felt,
and sunk it into this infinite abyss.
going down.
and down and
down.
d
o
w
n
. 

but i don’t have the energy it takes
to be upset or angry or mad at you
and our unchangeable past and present.
so instead i’ll just continue to deal with this grief.
day by day. and day by day. and day by day.
i can’t force these feelings to go away,
but i’m slowly learning how to give them their space. 

and, yes, you may always be the rock that i carry with me in my pocket.

and somedays i will still find myself absentmindedly reaching in; forgetting,
only to be greeted by the unwelcome discovery of its continual presence—
cold and silent, waiting to be acknowledged.
but you’ve become a far more bearable load now.
one that i have slowly developed the strength and endurance to carry with me.
one that grows slightly smaller each time i obliviously run it through my fingers.
one that i hope someday can become a tiny, polished pebble.

a pebble that can symbolize my hope and healing, not my pain and fear. 

The house with the yellow gate.

It was whispered to me as if it was the kind of secret everyone knew, but none spoke of; immediately I had flashed back to my own house: gateless and void of all yellow. I needed to know what, and more importantly who, was behind that gate—despite the fact that deep down I was confident that I already knew the answer to those questions.

The next night as I left the beach, I resolved that to find this house and its notorious gate. It was time to meet the demons that had haunted me. I wanted to confront the very being that I blamed for everything—my pain, my hurt, my brokenness—in hopes that it could somehow make me whole again. 

Though I started my journey with no real sense of direction in mind, my feet just began: slowly at first but gradually picking up the pace. And they just feet kept going: one in front of the other. And then it repeated the process. One then the other. Left. Right. Left. Right. Left. Right. After what may have been miles, but could have just as easily been a few blocks, I finally had the courage to look up.

As I stood on the sidewalk, I looked across the street. At first glance it looked just like any other normal house: a door, some windows, a mailbox. Yet I instinctively knew it wasn’t, there seemed to be something off. Maybe it was the sole bedroom light on in the top left window. The strangely familiar car in the driveway, in the strangely unfamiliar location. Or maybe it was the waist high fence that went around its tiny yard with a small, yellow gate at its edge—inviting and foreboding at the same time (as facing your fears always seems to be). Eventually I cautiously walked up to the gate, ever so slowly opening it. In only ten more steps I was at the front porch, then in five more I found myself at the welcome mat, and with just another moment the doorbell would be mine to ring.

While trying to locate each and every last strand of courage within me, I abruptly noticed voices coming from the partially opened window. Mumbles at first, but later I’d come to recognize them as lovers’ sighs. They were whispered recycled phrases, lies they had told to plenty before. Promises made that had already been broken and gifts being given to someone other than their rightful owner. I stood outside hoping and wishing that just for a moment I too could enter the house and be apart of the exchange, but alas I knew it was not my fate, for I am not a violent person nor do I have the resolve to do something against my morals, so instead I opted to turn around and exit the yellow gate knowing that it was ultimately for the best.

I took the long way home that night; I had much to think about.

you know when you’re little and you’re reading a book,
and you anxiously want to know how it ends?

you want to know if the guy and the girl end up together.
if they conquer the terrible villain.
if they escape from the clutches of the evil step-parents.
if they ever find happiness again.
if they make it home safely. 
if the frog somehow manages to turn back into prince charming. 

anyways, you always ended up making one of two decisions.
you could read the last few pages of the book ahead of time.
or you stick it out and wait patiently.
reading page by page until the true story finally and completely unfolds.
(hopefully in a way that was better than you ever imagined) 

well, right now i feel like a little girl who skipped ahead to the last chapter.
and read it once or twice.
and now, the rest of the story just doesn’t seem right.
it doesn’t make as much sense.
and i don’t understand how i’m supposed to be getting from here to there.
because honestly, i don’t see it being possible.

but i’m also trusting in something bigger than myself.
because there is somebody who wrote this whole story.
and i’m not called to stress about the little plot twists in my life.
i’m called to trust that He’s already figured it all out.
and my only purpose is to live it and react to the plot twists the best way i can.
and through that, create the best story i possibly can. 

so, no, things don’t necessarily seem better on this dreary, monday morning.
but they do seem different.
and i still have the same peace that i had when i first saw this day on the horizon a week ago.

i don’t know what’s going to happen.
and i sure don’t know the next step.
but i’m holding on to the promise that everyone finds happiness again. 

In their hearts humans plan their course, but the LORD establishes their steps. 
Proverbs 16:9