He lives over an hour away from here, deep in the countryside. We have talked once before.
A friend of a friend gave him my number.

It's not what you are thinking.

He's finally accepted who he is, who he is called to love.
He's finally been fully honest with his wife
of almost ten years.
She's finally been honest with him.

He stayed to make her happy; he didn't.
She stayed to make him happy; she didn't.
They've just learned you can't make someone feel what you want them to feel...period.
They've just learned it's foolish to continue building a life around trying to.

The pain is deep on all sides.
The voices of condemnation and consternation are internal as well as external.

He is lucky to be alive.
In the last decade, his body, perhaps poisoned by having to live inside skin not its own, revolted.
He lives by way of parts gifted to him by a soul who lives among the saints.
He cannot drive, he can barely see.
Uncle George in DC says "no benefits for you," yet in his rural world, there are no jobs for one like him...or so they say.

His dependence on her was their inertia, their excuse not to be honest, not to understand their own feelings.

He just wants to talk...and he wants someone to tell him what to do.

His dependence lives.

His fear surfaces...the voices...of eternal escape and silence...have been whispering...and need to be exposed for the lies they are.

I listen, I comfort, I expose, I ask questions, I listen some more.

We pray.

Now I pray.

What next? For him? For her? For them?

For peace.
For courage.
For grace.
For strength.
For friends.
For love.
For hope.
For tomorrow.
For tonight.
For an hour from now.
For the next moment.