fifty years and retirement

In the sleepy, silent, still-dark of this morning, I woke.  As I often do when I wake up this early, I break my own rule.  I untangle myself from the sheet, inch my way over from My Side of the Bed and find a comfy spot on Justin's chest to lay my head.  He's usually still half asleep when this happens, but his arms always pull me in tight by way of welcome.  I can't sleep like this -- my always-too-warm body will never successfully nod off -- but some mornings I just need the closeness more than I do the sleep.

I still marvel that, in over nine months of nights, I've never slept alone.

This morning, a very clear thought entered my drowsy little mind: "None of this is guaranteed." 

You know, I'm better than I used to be.  This is a little hard to admit (although I suspect I'm not alone in this newlywed tendency), but when we were first married, I could hardly bear to let Justin out of my sight.  It was difficult to let him drive to the store down the street without me, for fear that something might happen to shatter our charmed existence.  I'd say I didn't want to go, but over and over again, at the last minute, I'd throw on some shoes and jump in the car to drive the three blocks with him to Albertsons. 

All of a sudden my heart was walking around outside my body.  And I was very, very conscious of it.

Am very, very conscious of it.  

*****

Less than a year after I left Bible college, I attended the funeral of someone I'd known more of than had actually known personally.  He was super-involved in campus life (famous for some of his hilarious stunts), and was a friend of several of my friends when I attended Northwest.  When his memorial service was set at a church less than twenty minutes from my home, I decided to go.

I have been to many memorial services.  Even as a life is celebrated, still -- the loss breaks me every time.  This one was especially hard, in a very unique way.  Paul had married his sweetheart only about a month before he died in a freak accident (the basic gist was that he was scoping out camping spots for his youth group, got out of his car to look, and his car slipped out of gear and pinned him underneath).  His wife seemed as strong as she was broken at the service -- they played her recorded words at the memorial, and as she honored her husband and shared her heart with us, I was amazed.  They also told lots of funny Paul stories, played a video of one of his most out-there sermons.  It was so strange to be laughing as much as we were crying. 

But I've never forgotten how small she looked in the front pew.  I've often wondered about her since, have said prayers for this girl I didn't know.  And I've often remembered, because of her, that none of us are promised fifty years and retirement together.

*****

"None of this is guaranteed."

As he slept, I prayed this morning in the darkness.  I'm not good at praying, but this one, I've gotten good at.  I asked God to keep Justin safe and protect him as he goes about his day.  I asked him to bring us both back together once our day's work is done.  I ask him often to give us many more days and nights and months and years together. 

I'm not afraid to ask God for fifty years and retirement.  (I think all of us ask God for it, whether we form the words or not).

I also ask God for the strength to still trust him and serve him if, someday, that prayer isn't answered the way I hoped it would be.

Most of all, I ask God for the grace to love Justin as much as I can today, on purpose.  I'm expecting a lot more days, of course, but I'm also squeezing as much laughter and hand-holding and heart-filled words as I can out of the one day I know I've got.  Hoping for the best, but not taking it for granted as a sure-thing.  It's the only way I know of to let my heart walk around outside my body and still know some peace.

It's also the best way I know of to spend fifty years or so.