this place is hard on stuff

tonight benjamin and i settled into my favorite chair by the window.
i've rested here, worried here, prayed here, drank swimming pools of coffee here.
i've laughed here, cried here, watched countless others cry here.
i've talked about babies and birth and Jesus and i've yelled and i've apologized.

i looked out at the grass on fire, the sunset hitting the blades and lighting them from the inside - the only thing i like about that vast field filled with stuff is how it looks when the the summer light is low and the kids are in bed.

wait, what? there is a hammock out there?
what? i look out that window every day, every few nights, and i remember no hammock.
the weird thing is, it looks like it's been there for years -
one side is half torn down and brushing the dust. its ratted and torn and falling apart.
and maybe i have overlooked it for a few days, but it can't be more than a few weeks old.
i've walked in between those trees, stared right through them and never seen that hammock.

this place is hard on stuff.
the well water is very literally hard on your hair and skin.
the stories are hard on your memories, sometimes too hard to tell, because people wouldn't believe you or they'd only hear the extreme - while you would see the faces behind the words.
you'd remember your blood rushing to your face and making your cheeks hot, either with anger or fear or laughter or passion or excitement.
the lifestyle is hard on your family, your sanity. you have to build a thick skin around your babes and around your heart, like a fortress.
lotion will eventually help the well-water skin, but what helps a thick-skinned heart?

so tonight i feel like that hammock.
it's only been a year and a half. someone from the past might swear they never even knew i was here and someone from the future might never hear my name.
but i've got some frayed ends and some dirty pieces of rope trailing behind me.
this place has been hard on me, on us.
but Jesus is the one who rebuilds hammocks
and makes them sturdy again.