I felt the fan's breeze this morning as I entered my room; not unlike any other day before it. Most days I don't pay it any attention because it's gentle breeze gets lost in the spans, while the other times I feel the cool wind as it makes my hair blow about my face. Yet not today. No, today the breeze brought to my attention the emptiness of my hands, the barrenness of my fingers.
Over the years I had created a routine for myself, one where I would remove my wedding rings and my pink sapphire ring before putting on my lotion. The breeze would strike my skin, cool from the freshly applied lotion, and gently offer me a quiet reminder to put my rings back on. In the beginning, those days so many months ago, when I no longer had rings to wear this routine would leave me sad and broken. Then many times throughout the day I'd touch my thumb to the void on my ring finger, serving another reminder of the loss I had been dealt.
As with all things time had it's way of dimming the pain. Then, last summer I was given another ring, a handmade one, by someone who made me empty promises. Again, when that ended and the ring was removed, the emotions returned fresh as new fallen snow. However, though it didn't seem like it then, time once again did it's thing. Once dimmed the focus was removed to a point where there was no longer even a faint recollection of something amiss.
But this morning as I went to my dresser for my lotion the breeze caught me and exposed my bare hands. I stared down at them and my fingers, which are starting to show the tell-tale signs of age, then started to cry. Here were the hands that had once held a man's. Hands that held a bouquet down an aisle to receive a ring that symbolized an eternal promise. Hands that have held babies, worked hard to provide, and cared for a family that is now forever broken.
I opened the top of my jewelry box, there in the upper left corner cubbie sat the diamond his mom gave him five years into our marriage and the solid band and wrap that I got later that same year. I put the three pieces together and watched as the light danced on the gems, diamonds and rubies. Rubies to signify the month we were married. I hadn't the heart to put it on, I had less power not too. So I did. I slid the rings on, just one more time. I felt the welcomed weight of the precious metal on my skin for those brief seconds before I slid them right back off, because even though I liked the feel, they somehow felt all wrong. Wrong because they had lost their meaning, one I someday hope to have the joy of receiving once again.
After putting them back into their designated spot in my jewelry box, I rifled thru the middle drawers looking for another ring. One that had meaning of it's own. A vintage ring from my mother's youth. One that I had worn daily as a teen when life was filled with the carefree abandon only a adolescent can hold. I put it on my right ring finger, the cool metal a safe weight and friendly reminder of the girl I once was. A girl untarnished by heartache and pain, of lies and broken promises. Now, as I sit here recording the moment I have the ring, a bold peace sign, staring up at me. In it's boldness it is lovingly telling me - peace be still. The Lord is with you and loves you so much. That He has never broken a promise or failed to be there for me. That I am still that girl in His eyes, the carefree child, His child whom He cherishes and made more precious than gold.