kindred spirits

I watch her prepare lunch from across the kitchen island with books neatly stacked and groceries half-unhomed and proof that people, and love, live here.  Her husband is working on yet another project car in the driveway, much as mine would if this were my home rather than hers.  Her littles, with their shy, inquisitive eyes, try to size up this stranger in their midst whom their mother welcomed with an embrace as strong as a sister, though she has none.  As they warm to me, three-year-old Pigtails can't sit close enough, and five-year-old Little Man overflows with a train knowledge that strikes me dumb with words seemingly too large for his young mouth.

As we share our lives, I gush words more numerous than hers, as it's always been, and I am bewildered by how time seems to stand still with us.  I remember late-night confidences and bright afternoons sharing what the Lord has done.  I remember my wedding day, and hers, and how we each stood with the other.  How is it possible that the last summer afternoon I spent in her yard could be three years past and her newest little is cradled on my lap?  We've barely missed a beat.  Our conversation flows with the same rhythm it always has, never at a loss for words or topics or joy or comfort.

And I wonder.

Is this what it will be like in eternity?  One long comfortable conversation with those who are ever near at heart though separated by distance or time?  Oh, how I hope so.