Some time ago you asked me if I would come to church with you every week, and I said, “of course.”
You didn’t ask, but in that moment, I imagined you asking, “Would you believe for me?”
And I imagined myself pausing a little to consider the implications of me pulling the very basis of my reality of life out from under me.
“Of course,” I repeated in my imagination.
Living with you was better than living the truth. You were my truth.