Burning Bush

Gravel crunches under my tires and I look for that Jeep in the parking lot. I know that must be you hunched over at a picnic table down by the still water; you never learned to properly dress for the cold. I sit silently, keys in hand, for one long minute. You flip the pages of a heavy book, and if I know you at all, it’s a Bible. If you would make some recognizable gesture, I’d be sure.

The trout pond, at 5:15. My throat is raw, and my face swollen, but no tears come now. You said you’d be there early, just like our second or third date, when you were falling in love with a woman for the first time. Back then, I was always tired and always lonely, but fiercely optimistic. My wrists were thin as a child’s, and I didn’t know then the difference between sickness and sin— I told you that I had the same sickness as your mother, who never loved you.

“Well, I think you could use somebody.”

“I think we both could.”

It was May the 20th, and we didn’t get around to fishing that day. All summer, we mastered the art of getting lost, your wheezing laugh giving me wrong directions on Route 122. Brain fog was something endearing.

Now it is winter, same time and place, and already dusk. Leaving the safety of my car and making my way down to where you sit by the pond feels like tying myself to the whipping post. I thought closure was what I wanted. Since I’ve already grieved, I can’t turn down your unmarked road anymore. That much, I understand.

Coming to meet you is like visiting a grave. But when I approach, your cheeks are rosy, and your hair is dark and wet on your brow. You look less like a ghost than I’d hoped.

“How are you,” I venture. I know full well you’re frayed as I am.

“I’m good,” your hand over that Bible like an oath.

“Where we left off felt very final.”

“I feel encouraged, though,” you breathe.

I wait for your explanation. After the pain I’ve caused you, the least I can do is shut up and try to understand.

“You know, when I asked you to pray about it, did you?” I nod, because I really did.

Your eyes are glassy. “…because before I even got to Josh’s house yesterday, Russ of all people texted me out of the blue. He said, ‘Marriage is too important to let someone’s little sin stand in the way.’ I told him, ‘You don’t know how big this is.’”

You look at me expectantly. Gratitude trembles my lips before I can speak it.

We’re not married, but I get your point. This was your God giving you a sign that it’s okay for you to change your mind. And from the way your mouth full of braces is smiling at me again, a sign is all you needed.