On those occasions when both Monday and the 26th of the month occur at the same time, my family will always pause and reflect.

The world with its rushing currents has pried us loose of our grip on that which we could not hold. It remains difficult to rise each day to walk past a room that would be filled with such clutter, but remains remarkably bland and empty of memory, of fragrance.

Sometimes memories are sweet and refreshing...they bring resolution to a crusty thirst like a pitcher of fresh lemon-ade on a sweltering day. Other moments bring back the tide that forces your breath from your body, and leaves you heaving on rocky shoals.

Always will I see those piercing eyes penetrating whatever facade I have put on. Knowing the truth, and seeing past the pretense.

15 years old but with the soul of one much older and wiser. Clarity was his...a gift from his Savior. The 'shades of gray' that most Christians dwelled in, were foreign to him. Black and white is how he saw the world.

Love for others was always on his lips and his heart. Reaching out to the broken was his nature. Seeking to mend their hearts, like fishermen repair their nets so they can catch the fullness of life, required his time but little effort. He gave so freely.

How I miss his hugs, his voice, his laugh...his quiet occupation with others. His black t-shirt and scruffy chin belong to the shores of another land. One I desire but cannot conceive.

Frequent sniffles from his mother, reflect a time-released sleep-aid, but counter its effect. Always the pain seems fresh, and often the air is perfumed with the brokenness of her heart.

I suppose the days get easier as the surf pounds glass back into sand, but so often my heart does not feel it.

Quieter must I be about what once was, lest others think I am losing my way. Too focused on the past, too confused about the future and too lost to live in the present, is their offering...they do not understand. They have never truly, lost.

Still. Be still.

Let the rhythmic beating of His heart bring the rain of rejoicing to our weary discontent. Let our bodies be covered with the dew of His Manna...only partaking in what is required.

The pounding in my head and the scent of the air without him will be for just a time longer...and then my King will separate me for eternity from this enmity that parasitically feasts on my pain.

He is my Balm. He is my Portion. He is my Need.