FINDING FRIENDSHIP

The love of a near stranger makes him no longer unknown.

He looks into my eyes, reaches forward, truly listens, makes me talk. I haven't always done this, but I don't know that this matters anymore. All he knows is that I have something to say and he wants to engage me, my mind being his treasure box. He makes me wonder if God is like this, leaning forward, as I move closer to put my ear closer to hear His sweet voice, telling me secrets, not thinking of yesterday. And I am grateful that this man, made by this same God, can listen with the deepest part of him. I have long waited for this.

Long loneliness makes us excited to speak words that are no longer merely thoughts rehearsed in quiet rooms where we live. I find myself wanting to touch his soul with my words. How often have women wanted to do just this? We, the breathing sensitive to the muscled strength, are just profound people simply wanting love. Simple. Wanting love to wrap us up in the physical as God (if we are opened to our Creator) wraps us in His arms. Wanting to be listened to. There is always silence when only the physical body, that one day will return to dust, is the only desired thing. The people must search deeper, the Holy God whispers. The deep calleth unto the deep. The box the deep is treasured in must be opened and laid aside. Then love.

We talk and my soul breathes a sigh of relief. I am not alone. He is not a figment of imagination as he speaks words I have long imagined would be spoken. I have written of moments like this. And he is fulfilling it.

Does friendship turn to love turn to the demand for an eternal response? The desire sparks the romance of the infinitesmal...words spoken in a bookstore cafe...in a gold car...at water's edge...all turn my heart from stone to flesh. This is what God promised. He said that He would change my heart of stone to a heart of flesh. He did not imply that it would be the unseen spiritual only. He can use what and who he will to push the blood through this temporary body, housing spirit ("a spiritual being having a natural experience," the man sitting across from me sings in his beautiful, jazz voice declaring what I have long believed). It happened this way: I felt it beating inside my chest again, once stilled when death stole. Here, I am awaking from loneliness' hibernation, because he - the sent one, apostle of my heart - has learned to listen when he was not heard.

I cannot believe that he does not want to lift that voice in front of others, but I do believe that there is no need for the diamond sitting before me to be broken in pieces and sold. He has been broken enough. He wants only to write. To write the new song of the Lord. To give those vocalized harmonies of Heaven away so others can tap into the unseen spiritual and be healed; I want him to. I desperately need him to write worship with a pen of iron drilling the words eternal into stone - the Ten Commandments, the King's Decree, Jesus finger writing in the dirt as prideful men try to kill sin's victim. I am desperate for his song. He only sings briefly, this song not his, and I close my eyes - forgetting where I am - pretending that he is crooning his own worship.

How beautiful the thought is that his healed heart would sing gratitude to his Healer.

My spirit reaches for his, saying softly feminine: "Write here." Take this moment and write down what you hear for you do hear. You do.

Maybe that is why I am here...sitting here...finding friendship as it finds me, as God finds me, loves me through this experience too. I think of him who I lost, this time last year, weeping for his return that will never happen here. I wonder if he prayed for this when he stared into my eyes before saying goodbye. I felt him praying, hoping for me that I will never be alone again after those final tears were shed. I feel him talking about me in Heaven as I mention his name on earth. Did he pray that I would be found?

You learn more than you think you do when your heart is broken. You learn each part of it, as it is gently put back together by the Creator's hands. Each part is taken gently in universe-holding hands and delicately reformed, transformed. The glue He uses to seal my heart is the revelationd (the light revealing light) that I, once invisible, am seen in illumination, and that quanitfyingly brings me to a place of wanted inspection. I am standing here, nothing to hide, not hidden, revealed again. God uncovers my position to the one sent to find me. And since the last time, I let eyes stare into my soul without turning away from the gaze looking deeper, I want to be found.

I listen, nod, watch his eyes, and see the fire as he says what he has only told God in the quiet. He knows me, though he just learned my name. I am his friend first. I am his friend. How often can this be said?