do not stay upset for long. remember you love him. remember he loves you. remember he makes mistakes. and when he says he’s sorry, he means it. let him say he’s sorry. forgive him.
the creak of floorboards are whispers.
you are a bird, a tree without roots, a cold morning, no wonder it is him you’ve fallen towards.
do not settle for less than a phone call when you’re upset. always tell him the truth. never be ashamed of your sadness. let him validate your feelings when he tries to.
listen to him. he may not always tell you how his heart looks. he may not be able to easily talk through his fathers cancer. ask him, be patient.
build a home in your arms and welcome him, always. he is a man but he is also a boy. don’t let either of them stay out in the cold. chances are, they both need to cry.
this is not about you. this has never been about you. let him love you but love him even when he forgets. love him when he breaks a promise. love him when he asks for forgiveness.
do not settle. love someone wholly. find a canyon, a mountain range, an impossible 2pm sunset. find a constellation, find a day where the sun never sets.
you will find him in everything. he will be 600 miles away and you’ll find the color of his eyes or the way he laughs and it’ll come like the wind; brief and full and your eyes might water and your heart might sing a foggy echo but let it. it is only fair.
he will be 600 miles away and you will feel like an attic, like a broken tea cup, like a whole lot of empty, of nothing, that can’t ever be filled.
it is okay. you are okay. you love and you love deeply. you will be okay.
drink coffee on slow mornings and think of his hands.
think of the first time he traced your palm with his fingertips and it was as if you were nothing but morning light and shifting dust. think of his smile, think of his laugh, think of his steady chest beneath your sleepy eyes. you won’t ever find a place so right than beside him. but you, too, must know, though you will not always be home.
you will always find it again.
— things i have learned about love (via heeavyboots)
God doesn’t talk to me in an audible voice because God isn’t a human; He’s God. That makes sense to me because human beings are limited and God isn’t limited at all. He can communicate to us in any way He wants to anytime he wants to. Through flowers, other people, an uncomfortable sense, a feeling of joy, goose bumps, a newfound talent, or an appreciation we acquire over time. It doesn’t need to be a big mystical thing.
I haven’t seen a combination of tree limbs that looked like John the Baptist or a cloud formation resembling Jesus. Honestly, they look just like branches and clouds to me. But I do see the beauty in them and the beauty that’s everywhere, that God made for me and you. I especially see evidence of God in other people’s lives. What’s beautiful about them always looks an awful lot like God to me. I wonder if the people listening for voices or looking for cloud shapes miss the whisper of God’s creation, somehow thinking it’s a lesser form of communication, like a text message rather than a whole book on tape.
It could just be me, but in all of this and despite what feels like a handicap at times, I can almost read His lips inaudibly saying to me, “I love you this much.”
Do you understand how amazing it is to hear that from an adult? Do you know how amazing it is to hear that from anybody? It’s one of the simplest sentences in the world, just four words, but they’re the four hugest words in the world when they’re put together.
You can do it.
— Sherman Alexie (via observando)