I hate this seat. The seat from which I am telling someone goodbye when I don’t want to. The seat that makes me seem rigid and uncompromising.
He’s mad, or offended, or both. The warmth and contentment have faded from his face, replaced with a steeliness that chills me. I know this conversation means I won’t be seeing him anymore on Friday nights or Sunday mornings. It feels like my fault, when that is partially why we are here in the first place.
I try to explain, but the harder I try the muddier it gets. I can’t seem to push past the clouds that hunger has drawn to my mind. I’m talking in circles, hoping somehow my string of words will serve as a balm. But they seem to only to cause more irritation to the sore I’ve opened.
The truth is, I don’t need to explain. I need to place him in God’s hands and walk away. I pray that someday soon he will understand.
I’ve waited too long to compromise on things I have left behind in footprints pooled with tears. Not even for someone who gives me butterflies and adds an extra dose of romance to a sunset. Not even for someone who makes steadying a wobble on ice skates that much more breathless. Not even for someone who can smooth away my jumpiness in a scary movie.
He leaves me sitting alone at the table and pushes the door of the coffee shop open sharply. I stare at my cup as it blurs, praying this is the last time I have to sit in this seat. The murmur of chatter continues on around me as if nothing has changed.
There is no moment lonelier than the one after a false start. I miss him already.
But throughout the following days, God whispers, “I am pleased with your obedience.” That means even more than sunsets and butterflies.
And so I resolve, as much as I hate this seat, I will sit here again if I have to.