I'm trying to ignore it, but that's not working.
It bubbles up in spite of me when I hear certain songs, or scroll through my Facebook newsfeed; even in my dreams at night. I'm not writing or talking about it too much, wanting to stay positive and not dwell in what's out of my control.
All that.
But it's not working.
I give way today to the long worn out pain of it, aching to be where I cannot be.
It's like it was that first time. Not the first time in Southeast Asia itself, but that first time spent in the centre of love of what had already become my unexpected family in Thailand. That first time, having spent an extraordinary space of surreal days together. No common language then, just love. And now, having said the goodbyes, and now on the plane looking out the window as it left the ground, the mountains, the people I was now hopelessly committed to. That time it was awful, the pain in my chest. Not alarming, but achy. Real. (Love Actually Hurts)
"What have I done?" I'm saying to myself. So far away, this plane is taking me. When would I get back to them?
When will I?
I don't regret it, this reckless love. It reminds me of what's true and good about living on a planet with so much wonder in so much belonging. I don't like it, this achy love. But I wouldn't trade it for not knowing the beauty that makes the absence of it hurt so much.
But this virus is vicious against my longing.
There. Just that today.
And the knowledge that to hurt like this means something very important is happening.
I'm good with that. No. I'm not. But I'll press into it to see what God's doing.
Because if anyone knows that love hurts, it's Him.
