Remoy Philip

writer. creator. producer.

My Husband's Chair


My husband, he has his chair. And one day, when the sun was bright and the few clouds in the air left bruises on the earth's floor, my husband sat in his chair and told our son a story.

He said, "Son, do you know about God's love." 
"Yes Papa, I do."
"Tell me son. Tell me what you know."
"God built the world. He built bears and dogs and strawberries. He built it for us. He loves us. He loves me."
"Yes son, he did. But is that all?"
"I think so, Papa."
"Well let me tell you a bit more: God is perfect. He always will be. He always was.  And you are very right, he built the world and everything thereof. But you and me and mama, we are not perfect. Are we?"
"No Papa."
"No, no. We are not. And since we are not, and since He is and since He loves us, we need something to cover our sins. Do you know son, what I mean when I say sins?"
"Yes papa. That's why we aren't perfect."
"Right! And since God is perfect he can't be near sin or close to sin. But son, and this is the beautiful part, because he loves us so much, his Son, like you are my son, came to the earth his Father built, He died. And His Son's blood is what covers us and makes us perfect again. Do you understand?"
"I think so Papa."
"I'm so happy you understand son."
"But I think I have one question, Papa."
"What is it son?"
"God can't be near us because of sin?"
"No son."
"But he loves us?"
"Yes son."
"Papa, didn't He make the rules? All of them?"
"Well son-"
"-but Papa, you love me, and so does Mama, always, and you aren't perfect and I sin a lot, but you still love me, and you still hold me. Won't you always?"
"Yes, but-"
You still sit with me here and tell me stories even though we both aren't perfect."
"Yes, son."
"I guess Papa, I just don't understand how God is perfect or why he made bad rules and why His love without sons dying means he can't sit with me here."

The day went on. The sun stayed high. My husband kept rocking. My son got up from the chair. I turned to see him standing in the doorway. The rhythm of the creak of the rocking chair assured us all that nothing would be alright. 


Without Relent,