Early the next morning, Laban kissed his grandchildren and his daughters and blessed them. Then he left, and returned home.
When daughter, Sarah, and her husband, John, depart for South Carolina with the three beloved granddaughters on March 1st, Danny and I have every hope of seeing them again during their April spring break. "It's not that far away," I reassure Virginia. "We can make it!"
But weeks turn into months, and the months seem like years in the wake of this persistent virus. Because of preexisting conditions regarding his heart, Danny cannot safely travel. We are stuck at home, not even getting out to the store, but having our groceries delivered. Yes, we can take walks in the neighborhood, and the occasional drive to rev up the cars and for a change of scenery, but this is, for now, our story.
I want to lose hope, but then I remember Laban. When he kissed his daughters and grandchildren good-bye, he certainly understood that he would never see them again. I can't even begin to imagine the pain and sorrow he endured at their parting. Until the end of his days, Laban most likely conjured up images in his mind as to how his daughters and grandchildren were growing, playing, loving, and laughing. Living lives in which he would never again take part.
Thankfully, Danny and I aren't confined to such a fate, and thus, this poem is born.
When I see your face
Hear your voice
I long to reach beyond
Beyond Face Time
Scent of perfect love
Beyond, you are
But not forever