Tears of Ice

1:00 a.m, again. I've watched lately as my life has seemed to increase in speed. Time flies, whether you're having fun, or not. I sit here tonight, noting the ice outside, the frozen world around us and the silence that has fallen upon this Missouri town.

And before I know it, my mind begins to slip again...

The man awakens to the sun shining through his window on a January day. Slowly he powers himself out of bed, into the bathroom the hot water runs down his neck and back. A warm reminder that he still is alive. He stands there for what seems eternity until finally he turns off the water and the cool chill of his house rushes into his once utopia of heat. The clothes come on, not an orange, not a glass of coffee, nothing as he grabs his coat and steps out the door.

The coldness of the day bites his face, another reminder of his life that lays before him. The man ignores his car, calls his work and begins to walk. Through the snow he steps, noting the artscape in front of him with the ice carefully placed throughout the trees, allowing them to twinkle in the sun. A gentle breeze and the trees move and creek, a winter equivalent of wind chimes in the summer wind.

He continued down the road, past his town, a "hello" and "good day" to the people as he passed by. The man had made it to the other side of town as the wind began to blow a little sharper, almost as a sign to turn back from what lied ahead.

Up the hill the road lay on, a turn to the left, through the gates the man was welcomed by the stones of the dead. He walked row to row, not because he didn't know why he was there, but because he was trying to stall from what lied ahead. Towards the end he stumbled upon the freshly turned earth, now deep with permafrost, it took him back...

He stood there, tears in his eyes, reciting his poem, his life story, the things that were most dear to him, inbetween words he took deep breaths, holding in the emotions that lie inside. The world was watching him, he couldn't stumble now, he'd come to far...

...the thought of that day shook the man as the breeze awoke him back to reality. "I am not strong enough", he spoke within his mind as he dropped to his knees in the snow. The coldness filled him from toes to head, from mind to soul as he wept over the one he lost. "How am I to continue God? Why did you do this to me? Who am I but a humble servant?", he screamed aloud as the birds fled and the sun shined.

The man slowly collected himself as he stood in front of the stone of the one he loved and in his mind recalled the best gift he ever received from his lover. In the midst of the summer, they were driving across the country side, a wonderful Sunday drive. They parked in front of their newly bought house, a new life, a new family they believed. In her pocket she reached and pulled out a necklace, nothing special in the eyes of the world, just a leather strap and a wooden cross in the middle.

"To you my love, as a reminder of where we stand, and who we serve in our work and in our love. May this remind you each morning as you awake what we have been blessed with, and with this on as you wrap your arms around me at night may you be reminded of what love is.", she spoke as she put the necklace on him.

As the man recalled the memory, he reached into his pocket and out came a worn leather strap and a worn wooden cross. The worn spot on the wood from rubbing it with his thumb as she laid in the hospital those last days. He held onto it, as a tear left his face and dropped onto the wood.

"To you my love, as a reminder of where we stand, and who we serve in our work and in our love. May this remind you each morning as you awake what we have been blessed with, and with this on as you wrap your arms around me at night may you be reminded of what love is.", he spoke softly as he laid the necklace on her stone.

With a sigh and the wiping of the final tears the man arose in the winter wind and began his walk back to his house, to their house, and prayed that it be warmed by the presents of her love.

It's the little things from the ones we love that remind of us of what we have. It's not the fancy rings or the big houses. It's the basic necklaces, the homemade cards, the hand written poems, and the homecooked meals.

It's 1:32 a.m, I find myself shivering because of the mans cold he walked through. I can only hope that we can walk through lives cold and dying moments in hope of a brighter day of basking in the Son.