The groan and the illumination

At the end of a day a thought awakens this deep ache in my soul:
I wish I could tell my grandparents.




Fred, who has been gone longer than I care to admit, in deep baritone, would rumble: Praise the Lord!

Because that's what he always said, because that's what he always meant.

And then, he'd hug me, his round tummy pressed against my heart ~ an embrace that can't be taken away no matter how much time has admittedly passed.

And maybe he'd say: I can't believe you're going to be a mom...the way he once said: I can't believe you're a teacher...the way he once told his freckle-faced, red-haired granddaughter: You're my little school girl.



And Grace, with her quiet smile and gentle twinkle would smile and giggle her glee.

She, who birthed her own children in mid-thirties would know the deep ache, the sighing relief, tripled by anxiety, softened with prayer.

Her hand would clasp mine and maybe she'd say: I never thought I'd see another great-grandchild.



The last thing Fred ever said to me was this:
We prayed for you everyday.




And while one thought ached my soul, the other gives it light: That those prayers, transcending seasons and years, would be as new and as old as if they were given yesterday; may they still reach the throne of God.

And here, wrapped in the groan and the illumination of the love that was the past and is the current, may my own child find a home in the prayers of my grandparents.






All these images were taken at the home of my husband's grandma in Romania; the same home where he spent most of his growing up years. She, too, is gone now and how we long to share our news with Irina.

I'm linking up with In the Hush of the Moon and Imperfect Prose Thursdays.