Surrendering to Love


Marianne Williamson says, “We do not surrender to another person so much as to love itself.” Surrender? That’s a word Kevin used in one of his early letters. I’d tried to submit to love before, but had I ever surrendered to it?

Nope. Usually, I tried to control or reject love. I tried to dismiss Kevin by comparing him to previous men. He wasn’t having it. He asked me to believe and surrender to the FIRE!

He asked—not demanded, expected, manipulated, or sold me on putting myself second. He put me—not first, as so many men did in the beginning—but equal, my desires being as important as his were strong.

Hell, yes, I surrendered—not just to the love, but to the relationship and the man. I opened myself to fresh love. I let go of outcome. I never had a man love me in such strong ways that softened my edges without weakening my boundaries.

Kevin said I could trust him. I learned to, as he learned to be more trustworthy. We were each other’s mirror. Not pedestal mirrors—you’re so beautiful, smart, perfect … Those people aren’t mirrors.

Yes, Kevin saw me as beautiful, sexy, and smart and he told me. His actions matched his words. He saw my scars and loved them, too. He was the opposite of a crazy maker. Kevin helped me let go of my crazy and own my weird.

He looked at me sideways if I said I’m sorry for disagreeing, or for being me, as I once had a tendency. He made my apologies unnecessary and my desire to flee disappear.

The depths we went to, the conversations and experiences we packed into two short years was more than the previous 25 years of friendship—even though we’d worked and partied together and talked on the phone for hours many times.

Mathematically, it doesn’t make sense. Kevin’s friend Garry said, “God slowed time down for the two of you so Kevin could have that experience.” Garry said, “I knew it the first time I heard him talk about you. Then, when I saw the look in his eyes and when saw him with you, I knew.”

Those guys knew each other since they were 17. Garry knew. I knew the depth of their connection, too. That’s why after Kevin passed I gave Garry the watch I’d given Kevin.

Now full circle, Garry’s telling me about time and God’s ability to do ANYTHING, praying that God close the gap between heaven and earth. He calls Kevin and I husband and wife, saying that’s how Kevin felt.

Garry confesses his conversations with Kevin—now, after his death, like me. He tells me what Kevin says back, like I’m experiencing. Garry says he and Kevin go walking together, like we do.

Damn, I don’t feel so crazy or alone with this religious man who also touched the depths of Kevin’s soul—and still does. They were brothers, black and white, accountable to the word.

So now, somehow, Garry is my brother and I’m his sister. He calls me and prays for me—fully present in his faith even on the phone. Garry tells stories, laughs, listens, and confirms.

I’m not crazy. Kevin was all that. Time slowed down. I surrendered to love and to Kevin.

He was the FIRE! He didn’t burn me. He didn’t go out. He keeps saying, “I’m here, Icey! I’m here!” Again, I surrender to love.

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