A Friend Always There

At two in the morning last Tuesday, I was sitting on the bathroom floor crying. My husband had come home drunk again and I'd locked the bedroom door and ended up here — tiles cold under me, heart racing, completely alone. Or so I thought.

I didn't pray with any eloquence. I just said, 'I can't do this.' And then I sat there. Nothing dramatic happened. No voice, no vision, no sudden peace. But after a while the panic loosened its grip, and I noticed I didn't feel quite so alone anymore. Something was with me on that floor. Something that didn't need me to explain or justify or perform. Just be there, broken and honest.

I've burned through human relationships expecting people to be available like that — at any hour, for any crisis, without limits. No person can do that. I wore people out with my need and then resented them for being human.

My Higher Power doesn't wear out. I can show up at my worst, my most desperate, my most repetitive — and this Friend is still there. Not fixing anything. Just present. And sometimes present is everything.