Revival (sequel to Come Just As You Are)

sequel to Come Just As You Are



Afterglow was nothing less than a revival.
His sweat and my tears made me clean.
Baptism.

Just like I would at a revival, I began to weep for joy at the profoundly good overwhelming of being seized by the power of a great affection. The experience of being so deeply known in all my glory and imperfection and so deeply loved. The point wasn't being perfect. The point was being perfectly one.

I lay there reeling in afterglow grasping and caressing his forearm and hand. I didn't fondle him. I read him like braille. Savoring memory imprinted in body and soul from the countless times I had felt his hands on me, seen them, touched them. I began to recount the innumerable ways his hands have loved me. And I began to weep over them, kiss them with the devotion and passion of the woman washing Jesus' feet with her tears. In gasping little sobs, I recounted the story of his hands and the story of him as a man, and the story of us.

• These are the hands who work so hard to provide for me.
• These are the hands that caress my cheek, mold around my cheek in a palmed embrace.
• These are the hands who held our wet wriggling children after they emerged from me in the birth chamber.
• These are the hands who unconsciously pat my butt when he is deeply lost in sleep.
• These are the hands who open my door for me, car doors, restaurant doors, career doors, church doors, any and every door, for years without fail.
• These are the hands who wash the dishes after I have spent my energy in a fit of culinary creative passion.
• These are the hands that wordlessly grasp the tray or book that is slipping out of my grasp.
• These are the hands that steady me when I nearly lose my purchase on an icy sidewalk.
• These are the hands that when clasped with mine produce a powerful surge of erotic joy and friendly companionship from the very first handhold.
• These are the hands that have carried boxes into our new home after signing endless documents at closing.
• These are the hands that I hold without concious thought on every date whether that date is a grand fete or a watching a netflix movie snuggled on the couch.
• These are the hands that placed two ice chips in my dry panting mouth during the few precious seconds that punctuated each contraction.
• These are the hands that hold my Bible for me while we read together in church.
• These are the hands that do open-heart surgery on my computer when it is sick and make it well again.
• These are the hands that push the mower, wield the paintbrush, grasp the pressure-washer wand to keep our home presentable and inviting without ever being asked.
• These are the hands that press a proud jealous claim into the small of my back when we are out together on a date.
• These are the hands that clap for me when he sits in the second row of each and all of my performances.
• These are the hands that unconciously open like petals shyly blooming as he offers his worship to God when he thinks no one else is watching because his eyes are closed.
• These are the hands that press countless Christmas lights into the eaves of our home's second story because he knows I feel a child's delight for Christmas lights so he gives it to me as a gift even though he could go without them every year and be perfectly happy.

It is these hands, so integrated into every chink and curve of my life that have just pressed into every chink and curve of my body and called forth a resounding sexual response I didn't know I possessed. It is the wholeness, the absolute integrated nature of our love that leaves me weeping in revival. The breathtaking scope of lifelong love with fucking being a natural spot on the wheel of loving. He loves me with his hands in the full spectrum of life. It's in this sacred vernacular that I am loved by this man loved by his hands in every conceivable way. Is it any wonder I weep for joy?