Her eyes were already puffy and red, but the tears just kept streaming down her face. I could tell that she was trying to contain the panic; fear was so close to the surface, and the worry poured out her heart in tiny salty droplets on her eyelashes and freckled cheeks.
She begged me not to leave.
I held her and patted her back like I was beating a drum worn smooth. The wet spot on my shirt grew as the tears continued to flow. Trust God. Trust God, I whispered to her soul and mine. I could feel the slight nod of her head, buried in my side. Little ostrich, hiding from the truth of the goodbye.
She made a magazine for me to read on the airplane. It is filled with horse drawings and jokes and funny stories. I stapled it together for her and held it to my chest in a gesture of enthusiasm. She smiled, and then she cried.
And I held her close enough to feel the weight of her worry.
She is so much like me. I know that weight. We all have crosses. Tonight hers was a goodbye in a doorway, light and life in our cozy home versus the dark unknown of a world where her mama ventured.
I hear that by the time she carried that weight to bed, she was smiling again. I hope my words were ringing true in her heart as she laid her head on her very cozy, very familiar lady bug pillow: Trust God. Trust God.