Coaching Lives By The Big Guy Up There

Coaching Lives By The Big Guy Up There

The Haunting Echo

That bone-deep cold morning when she left, it’s been lodged in my gut for close to two damn years now. Six years woven into the fabric of each other's lives, and suddenly I was staring at the threadbare reality of days absent her voice, her breath, her shadows dancing in the confines of our shared space. Starting over? Hell, I didn’t even know where or how to end properly.

Lost doesn’t cut it. It doesn’t tell the blistering silence of the apartment or the haunting echo of my footsteps in our empty hall. The next six months were a blur of dim church lights and murmured prayers, my pleas for solace ricocheting off stained glass, unanswered.

Desperation drove me to solitude at 5:30 in the frosty grasp of morning, the hour when shadows still cling stubbornly to the earth. Aching for a dialogue, I cracked open the Bible, the spine creaking like my weary heart. The words leapt - not gentle or comforting, but urgent, fervent. Screaming, “Look pal, you’re not just some footloose bachelor now; you’re a child etched in the Almighty's sketchbook.”

It hit hard. The painful realization of having lost more than her – I’d misplaced pieces of my own soul in the debris. I’d tied my being so tightly with hers that I’d overlooked whose image I was crafted in. Not hers, not mine, but His.

Of Scars and Stardust

Understanding dawned bitter and sweet in the murky dawn. I was more - more than us, more than the shared meals and whispered secrets. I was a brushstroke on a celestial canvas, a fragment of divine intent. And He – this architect of universes – hadn’t dotted my path with tears but with stepping stones. My purpose wasn’t scribbled in the margins of someone else’s story; it was the headline of my own, written in bold script.

This newfound hunger for celestial clarity didn’t unravel the trauma, but it shadowed me less menacingly. Knowing where I came from, whose breath filled my lungs each morning, reshaped my existence. I evolved, not back to who I was, but towards what I could be – a conduit for His narratives of redemption and grace.

He was never hiding, no grand magician with tricks up His sleeve. Just patiently waiting at the crossroads of my stubborn will and His eternal wisdom, ready for me to glance up from my muddied boots to His outstretched hand.

Echoes and Acts

Now, the road doesn’t feel so jarring under my feet. This dance of life and faith has me spinning closer to others, whispering hints of His blueprint in their ears. It’s funny, almost. We scour the horizon for signs and miss the map etched in the lines of our own palms.

Living a life stamped with His righteousness doesn’t make me a saint. Hell no. But it crafts a life coach out of a broken man, one who’s seen the grit and grime and found the gleam of hope within it.

As long as His spark fuels this journey, it’s not such a drag. Not easy, but not solitary anymore. I walk, I fall, I rise. And in each step, a bit of His story unfolds, through me, an imperfect coach guiding lives, one sunrise at a time.