an easter surprise
The boy and I have been navigating the deep and choppy waters of long-distance for three years now. Three years! We were but friends in the beginning (well, friends who were unreservedly infatuated with one another!) and soon began dating. We knew from early on that our long-distance stint would be longer than that many of our friends, who had been distanced for a year at most. Our undergraduate degrees awaited us and we both felt committed to our distinct schools, churches, and cities. We knew this would eventually have to change - and so it will soon, soon, soon ! - but agreed we were willing to face it head-on for a time.
Three years later, we have walked through the many joys and griefs of this type of relationship. We joke that we are 'experts' at long-distance, knowing all too well we continue to learn how to best communicate, set expectations, affirm, love well and pursue God together day by day - and likely will keep learning beyond this season as well.
Strange, that we have gotten used to missing one another and being apart - that we perpetually count all the stars which separate us, and the days until we meet again. If only you could hear my grateful exhalations as I slowly distinguish our Promise Land on the horizon every couple few months- and especially lately, as our distance slowly approaches its end in less than a year. I can barely wait to live in the same city as the boy.
Assuredly, one thing I have (and will always be) in praise of throughout these past three years has been P's commitment to cherishing and loving me well - creatively, fiercely - despite the thousands of mile between us: letters penned with humor and fondness (may I never forget laughing aloud and tears streaming down my face as I read them!), parcels filled to the brim with thoughtfulness upon thoughtfulness, phone calls in the wee hours of the night to hear me spill what is on my heart, his endless lists of dates for whenever we will next meet.
Easter weekend of 2019, however, will certainly be remembered as one of the sweetest memories of all. I had just come home from the Good Friday service at church- an evening of communal lament and sorrow - and I was feeling the heaviness of that day, the saddest one of the Christian calendar.
We were getting ready for a quiet evening together when the doorbell rang. We wondered who on earth would come at this time- it was past nine o'clock in the evening, rain poured softly and dusk had long made way - but I was urged to open the door despite my temptation to ignore the knocks. Little did I know, I was the only one without a clue as to the person on our doorstep; everyone had been concocting this plan together for weeks (I am surrounded by quite the actors or, ahem, LIARS). I was fairly sure a murderer might be awaiting me on our front porch - which would have put quite the damper on our day - but was almost more astonished by the one who did turn out to be there (I am barely exaggerating).
And there he was. No single word could do justice to the amalgam of shock, joy, surprise, overwhelm I felt in that moment. I opened the door to my house and the sight of him, somehow, brought me Home.
This isn't to say the unit of four in which I have grown and become myself is not home to me (of course it is, and always will be)- but having him right there before me and my loving family right behind galvanized a sense of completeness and togetherness that I cherish so deeply. For those of you who know long distance, you'd agree that, after months of separateness, locking eyes with him is like an exhale after keeping your breath for a few seconds too long. I was too shocked to do or say anything at all- I am fairly certain I did not express myself with complete sentences for at least a half hour - but just fell into the arms I'd missed so much since January when we had last said goodbye.
I had so many questions, and just kept asking how on earth they had pulled off such a surprise. I'll admit it- I take pride in being an intuitive person, having often correctly guessed the birthday gifts I will receive or whether a relative or friend of mine is engaged or expecting. I think this might be my tendency to overthink every little thing, or my love for people-watching and innate sense of observation. But this completely took me by surprise. I had no idea. My guy had planned an entire trip to visit me for months without my knowing. Heart-sigh.
And what a sweet weekend it was. Of course, as any University student would know, Easter weekend tends to be one of much studying and paper writing- and P was gracious enough to let us carve time for schoolwork rather than more spirited dates. There was something precious - sacred - about doing utterly normal things by his side... things one would not view as exciting nor romantic, like drafting an essay or sipping tea in your living room. But these are the things we, unlike most couples, don't know together.
Our five days alongside one another were simple and slow, with the ideal match of time spent with family and time spent just the two of us. We dyed eggs in lively colors - a Debanné tradition. We drove westward to Hudson, rolling down the windows and playing Rivers & Robots the whole way. We walked on train tracks hand in hand, remembering our strolls on the railroads by our school in Germany - when our story was just budding. We sipped good coffee (black for him, a splash of milk for me) while talking of us, the fabric of our days spent apart, the hopes we hold dear and the God we love and trust. We went to the cabane à sucre with my family (P's first quintessential québécois experience at the maple farm) as music made of fiddles and wooden spoons filled our ears, and maple syrup ran through our veins. We celebrated Easter with my tribe - complete with a brunch with the extended family and, later, lamb tagine for just the five of us. We worshipped at Oasis Church, and I took endless mental snapshots of this place and these people I will miss so much come June.
I thought to myself it was quite appropriate that P surprised me on the weekend which commemorates the greatest surprise known to humankind- an empty tomb and resurrected Christ. Our God became man, bled and suffered for our pardon and then He rose again... defeating death so we could live. What grace has saved us!
The experience of Sunday worship in my church is always interesting for P given that I am in a French faith community, and he does not yet speak fluently. To add to the French, we also periodically worship in the languages present in the congregation (Baoulé, Créole, Spanish) - so it certainly makes for a multifaceted and stimulating service! I hold this dear to my heart, however, and think that multilingual and multicultural Easter worship is prophetic in so many ways - pointing to Revelation 7:9 about the Kingdom: "... behold, a great multitude that no one could number, from every nation, from all tribes and peoples and languages, standing before the throne and before the Lamb, clothed in white robes, with palm branches in their hands."
Together we basked in the boundless grace of the Easter story. The Christian faith is mounted upon this redemptive narrative: the emblematic suffering, shame, death of the Cross on the Friday, the waiting and in-between of the Saturday, and the victorious resurrection of our Savior on the Sunday. This is a weekend where we grapple with and celebrate the story which has reconciled us with God- the story I will wrestle with, claim for myself, share with others and build my life upon until my final breath (until I am face to face with Him).
I found myself frustrated, at times, that studies were on my mind when all I wanted to do what cherish these times with P and celebrate Easter more consciously. But I was soon reminded that the truths of Easter are not contained within that weekend alone. After all, we are the people of Easter and this reality changes everything, all the time.
I am so grateful for the boy who flew across the country to make my heart sing. I am so grateful for our times spent together - whether on lavish dates or writing papers, side by side. I am so grateful that I love a guy with whom I can remember and proclaim the finished work of Jesus on the cross.
Three years later, we have walked through the many joys and griefs of this type of relationship. We joke that we are 'experts' at long-distance, knowing all too well we continue to learn how to best communicate, set expectations, affirm, love well and pursue God together day by day - and likely will keep learning beyond this season as well.
Strange, that we have gotten used to missing one another and being apart - that we perpetually count all the stars which separate us, and the days until we meet again. If only you could hear my grateful exhalations as I slowly distinguish our Promise Land on the horizon every couple few months- and especially lately, as our distance slowly approaches its end in less than a year. I can barely wait to live in the same city as the boy.
Assuredly, one thing I have (and will always be) in praise of throughout these past three years has been P's commitment to cherishing and loving me well - creatively, fiercely - despite the thousands of mile between us: letters penned with humor and fondness (may I never forget laughing aloud and tears streaming down my face as I read them!), parcels filled to the brim with thoughtfulness upon thoughtfulness, phone calls in the wee hours of the night to hear me spill what is on my heart, his endless lists of dates for whenever we will next meet.
Easter weekend of 2019, however, will certainly be remembered as one of the sweetest memories of all. I had just come home from the Good Friday service at church- an evening of communal lament and sorrow - and I was feeling the heaviness of that day, the saddest one of the Christian calendar.
We were getting ready for a quiet evening together when the doorbell rang. We wondered who on earth would come at this time- it was past nine o'clock in the evening, rain poured softly and dusk had long made way - but I was urged to open the door despite my temptation to ignore the knocks. Little did I know, I was the only one without a clue as to the person on our doorstep; everyone had been concocting this plan together for weeks (I am surrounded by quite the actors or, ahem, LIARS). I was fairly sure a murderer might be awaiting me on our front porch - which would have put quite the damper on our day - but was almost more astonished by the one who did turn out to be there (I am barely exaggerating).
And there he was. No single word could do justice to the amalgam of shock, joy, surprise, overwhelm I felt in that moment. I opened the door to my house and the sight of him, somehow, brought me Home.
This isn't to say the unit of four in which I have grown and become myself is not home to me (of course it is, and always will be)- but having him right there before me and my loving family right behind galvanized a sense of completeness and togetherness that I cherish so deeply. For those of you who know long distance, you'd agree that, after months of separateness, locking eyes with him is like an exhale after keeping your breath for a few seconds too long. I was too shocked to do or say anything at all- I am fairly certain I did not express myself with complete sentences for at least a half hour - but just fell into the arms I'd missed so much since January when we had last said goodbye.
I had so many questions, and just kept asking how on earth they had pulled off such a surprise. I'll admit it- I take pride in being an intuitive person, having often correctly guessed the birthday gifts I will receive or whether a relative or friend of mine is engaged or expecting. I think this might be my tendency to overthink every little thing, or my love for people-watching and innate sense of observation. But this completely took me by surprise. I had no idea. My guy had planned an entire trip to visit me for months without my knowing. Heart-sigh.
And what a sweet weekend it was. Of course, as any University student would know, Easter weekend tends to be one of much studying and paper writing- and P was gracious enough to let us carve time for schoolwork rather than more spirited dates. There was something precious - sacred - about doing utterly normal things by his side... things one would not view as exciting nor romantic, like drafting an essay or sipping tea in your living room. But these are the things we, unlike most couples, don't know together.
Our five days alongside one another were simple and slow, with the ideal match of time spent with family and time spent just the two of us. We dyed eggs in lively colors - a Debanné tradition. We drove westward to Hudson, rolling down the windows and playing Rivers & Robots the whole way. We walked on train tracks hand in hand, remembering our strolls on the railroads by our school in Germany - when our story was just budding. We sipped good coffee (black for him, a splash of milk for me) while talking of us, the fabric of our days spent apart, the hopes we hold dear and the God we love and trust. We went to the cabane à sucre with my family (P's first quintessential québécois experience at the maple farm) as music made of fiddles and wooden spoons filled our ears, and maple syrup ran through our veins. We celebrated Easter with my tribe - complete with a brunch with the extended family and, later, lamb tagine for just the five of us. We worshipped at Oasis Church, and I took endless mental snapshots of this place and these people I will miss so much come June.
 |
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| Oh, sweet family of mine - complete with a silly face from Papa! |
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| So. Much. Québécois. Yum. |
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| We met a poney with so much teenage angst. |
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| Because, cute. |
I thought to myself it was quite appropriate that P surprised me on the weekend which commemorates the greatest surprise known to humankind- an empty tomb and resurrected Christ. Our God became man, bled and suffered for our pardon and then He rose again... defeating death so we could live. What grace has saved us!
The experience of Sunday worship in my church is always interesting for P given that I am in a French faith community, and he does not yet speak fluently. To add to the French, we also periodically worship in the languages present in the congregation (Baoulé, Créole, Spanish) - so it certainly makes for a multifaceted and stimulating service! I hold this dear to my heart, however, and think that multilingual and multicultural Easter worship is prophetic in so many ways - pointing to Revelation 7:9 about the Kingdom: "... behold, a great multitude that no one could number, from every nation, from all tribes and peoples and languages, standing before the throne and before the Lamb, clothed in white robes, with palm branches in their hands."
Together we basked in the boundless grace of the Easter story. The Christian faith is mounted upon this redemptive narrative: the emblematic suffering, shame, death of the Cross on the Friday, the waiting and in-between of the Saturday, and the victorious resurrection of our Savior on the Sunday. This is a weekend where we grapple with and celebrate the story which has reconciled us with God- the story I will wrestle with, claim for myself, share with others and build my life upon until my final breath (until I am face to face with Him).
I found myself frustrated, at times, that studies were on my mind when all I wanted to do what cherish these times with P and celebrate Easter more consciously. But I was soon reminded that the truths of Easter are not contained within that weekend alone. After all, we are the people of Easter and this reality changes everything, all the time.
I am so grateful for the boy who flew across the country to make my heart sing. I am so grateful for our times spent together - whether on lavish dates or writing papers, side by side. I am so grateful that I love a guy with whom I can remember and proclaim the finished work of Jesus on the cross.
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