Once, my friend Justine and I laid on the hood of my car on the side of a country road. We listened to Mumford & Sons and watched the sun set and the fireflies light up the soy bean fields until it was waves of lights, an ocean.
Once, my friend Marcia and I went on a rock hunt at Shadyside park in the rain. We climbed river banks like we were ten years old, shouting to each other, "look at this one!" as we waved them in the air. We made piles of rocks and only took home one each.
Justine lives in Texas now. Marcia is moving to Oklahoma.
I wish I could keep these soap bubbles of joy in my hands forever. Stay there in the light sea and river rain. Joy comes and then joy goes and I am left in the between trying to keep my hands open to the next happiness, trying to give thanks for this grief and that there was joy to be had. Trying not to miss what is here now. My heart is breaking but I am trying to whisper blessings. Trying to ignore the old lies that nothing lasts.
Communion cup in my hand, the wine and the bread, I eat and remember. This symbol becomes part of me in this act. His body part of my body, His blood part of my blood. "We cannot be separated," He whispers to me. I nod and I try to remember.