hearts like old, gray snow
The morning sun poured in through the windshield, and the purity of the winter morning kept us silent as the minivan drove through Iowa's highways. We sat reluctantly, depressingly, unwillingly. I felt my soul lift up silly prayers about this church we were driving two hours to visit. We reviewed our presentation but it was the same as last time.
I watched as the country houses slid by us, still adorned with cheeky Christmas décor, staring suspiciously at us city folk. I felt myself desperate to be known by their inhabitants. Will you know our lives? That we are packed up once again? That we are defined by a percentage? That our apartment is empty and lifeless and its thermostat is set at 55 degrees because we won't be back?
But the houses kept sliding by us, uncaring.
Snow powdered in the fields in the distance but lay lifelessly in the ditches beside us. It was the old, gray snow.
My husband was singing to himself.
Some things you do for money,
And some you do for love, love, love
Discouragement hung in the air and stifled conversation. I watched the dirty snow sit in silence and I knew that my heart felt like that old, gray snow.
Today was supposed to be warm.
I interrupted my husband's song. "Do you think our refrigerated food will keep all day?" I asked as I imagined the snow melting into muddied puddles.
"It will be fine," he answered, and I heard the despondency laced throughout his voice. The magic had left his eyes. We would be listening to the sermon at our home church right now. A Casey's gas station welcomed us to Creston, Iowa. We crept through the town, and the words of an older Cru staff loomed in my mind.
If I would have known how hard it would be, I wouldn't have signed up! she laughed.
I thought of the words I used to console my despairing husband as we had packed the night before:
Isn't He worth every sacrifice? Including this one?
The van rolled up to the church, with an older man shoveling its front steps. We looked at each other with mustered-up strength, or maybe just adrenaline, and walked into the small building. The air was warm, but not warm enough to melt this dirty snow, I thought flatly, right as the church doors closed behind me.
Some things you do for money
And some you do for love, love, love
I watched as the country houses slid by us, still adorned with cheeky Christmas décor, staring suspiciously at us city folk. I felt myself desperate to be known by their inhabitants. Will you know our lives? That we are packed up once again? That we are defined by a percentage? That our apartment is empty and lifeless and its thermostat is set at 55 degrees because we won't be back?
But the houses kept sliding by us, uncaring.
Snow powdered in the fields in the distance but lay lifelessly in the ditches beside us. It was the old, gray snow.
My husband was singing to himself.
Some things you do for money,
And some you do for love, love, love
Discouragement hung in the air and stifled conversation. I watched the dirty snow sit in silence and I knew that my heart felt like that old, gray snow.
Today was supposed to be warm.
I interrupted my husband's song. "Do you think our refrigerated food will keep all day?" I asked as I imagined the snow melting into muddied puddles.
"It will be fine," he answered, and I heard the despondency laced throughout his voice. The magic had left his eyes. We would be listening to the sermon at our home church right now. A Casey's gas station welcomed us to Creston, Iowa. We crept through the town, and the words of an older Cru staff loomed in my mind.
If I would have known how hard it would be, I wouldn't have signed up! she laughed.
I thought of the words I used to console my despairing husband as we had packed the night before:
Isn't He worth every sacrifice? Including this one?
The van rolled up to the church, with an older man shoveling its front steps. We looked at each other with mustered-up strength, or maybe just adrenaline, and walked into the small building. The air was warm, but not warm enough to melt this dirty snow, I thought flatly, right as the church doors closed behind me.
Some things you do for money
And some you do for love, love, love
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