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Through The Eyes of a Lion

“It is early morning, and I am walking along the waterfront in Seattle near the Pike Place Market. Bracing myself against the damp, chilly air, I zip my leather jacket up to my throat but still feel the wind cut daggers through me. I will them to run me through.

Clouds fill all of the visible sky—dark, menacing, and turbulent. My hands are burning. I start to run. Can I outrun this? I run until my legs burn too. The sky matches my soul. Seattle is a good place to be sad.

I will never walk her down the aisle.
She will never have a baby.
She lost only one tooth.
She will never read a chapter book.

Memories from only thirty days ago race past like floodwaters and sweep me off my feet. It’s as though I am in an abandoned movie theater inside my mind, being forced to watch archival footage from a horror movie that is my life. Frame after frame clicks by: Looking into her beautiful brown eyes. Hearing the sound of her rich, raspy voice. Seeing her lie there on the counter. Little red socks. Emergency lights flashing in through the kitchen window. A waiting room. Snowflakes melting as they hit our tear-stained cheeks. Temperatures so cold they cause our fingers and ears to sting as we stand in a cemetery blanketed in white, everyone wearing dark peacoats. Staring at a small, white box. The sound of voices singing Chris Tomlin’s “I Will Rise.”

This can’t be real.”

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