Happy Mother's Day

Ah, today is Mother's day. We enjoy honoring our mothers. I honor mine and and Monique honors hers and we honor each others lovely mothers.

I honor my wife on mother's day. For many days we felt as if we left our little one in a garden that couldn't grow. We all give our children away in the end...it's different for some than others. We mourn the loss of our baby...and while she, Reyana Breen Elgersma, isn't here, our young one went to the garden of eden and celebrates her mom from her perch at the throne. The pastor asked all mothers to stand in church today and my wife stayed in her seat...but her husband's heart knows our little one's mother and although she remained seated, her husband loved her even more. And so I wish a happy mother's day to the most beautiful amongst women.

Erasure

There is no erasure with her. I’ve spoken of time and distance for many years and I’ve simply found one constant truth about the soul of love…

All things pass and history repeats itself. Hitler’s voice tatters the historical airwaves, yet fascism and socialism redraw themselves. This alone poses a paradox monumental to the wiles of philosophers, Priests, pagans and prostitutes. The Montegues and Capulets hold sway to lore and lunacy; prose and pragmatism, their only ally. The memory of them lies only to what was loved and by whom.

The perfection of Heaven, the true object lesson of God’s temple binds to love, and my marriage is my mansion. The thing about time and history is that there is nothing new under the sun, the old fades and resurrects again in another generation.

But my love awakes fresh, like the change of season or the wind that comes in the afternoon. Stories of the old west intrigue our sensibility, but pictures of two old hands never straining to maintain their attachments burns well beyond our awareness to that which lifts the soul. Mankind are always undone by time and to dust returned, but the character of a good marriage lasts for generations.

She is a woman that cannot be undone by time or the faultiest of memory. I feel as an infant who’s just been fed, a child who’s read his or her first word, a boy who’s voice has changed, a natural musician who’s just discovered music…

I think that on the day Christ completes my mansion, and I’m ushered through its doors, that I will know whom I loved, why I loved her, and what union with Christ truly means.

There is no erasure with her…She, Monique is my soul and love—constant and forever.