Monday 31 October 2016

Not Consumed

It is because of the Lord's great love that I am not consumed for His compassions never fail.  They are new every morning; great is His faithfulness.  

I am going to be okay.  And, in fact, here and there, I am already okay.  His love is good and his compassion is faithful and I am His.  

Friday 28 October 2016

Surviving

I don't know how well I am surviving.  I don't know what to say or write or how to answer everybody who cares.  It's hard.  I cry.  Regularly.  I get mad at myself because I can feel that my brain is computing slower and I am unable to remember what we have up tomorrow or the day after.  Some days it doesn't feel like I am drowning and I almost turn down the friend who offers to bring supper.  Thank goodness I am lazy and say yes anyway, because a few hours later I am undone again.  

I am frustrated that so many parts of the system and process seem really dumb and illogical and sloth-like and inconsiderate.  I wish I could actually do something.  And then a few minutes later I am so glad that I can't.  Because I truly have no idea what the right decision is for Little Pip.  And being in perpetual limbo feels like nobody knows what the right decision is.  All I know is that the whole damn thing hurts so much.  

My heart is sad and sometimes it comes out as angry.  At everybody whose fault it isn't.  And then also at God.  When I finally have peace and quiet that lasts more than ten minutes my soul tries to pray, only to find itself instantly overwhelmed and desperately looking for something or someone to distract it from the pain.  What is remarkable to me, is that by grace greater than I can fathom, the same heart that sinks further into grief with each passing week, still desperately listens for the captivating melody of glory that weaves patterns of joy and grace into even these murky depths.  And so I guess it is by that divine hope that I am surviving.  

Monday 24 October 2016

Incongruent

Papa, the glory of the trees seems incongruent with the grief of my days.  And yet you are the God of both and my head knows that you are good in all of it.  Grant me the grace today, to be sure of what I hope for and certain of what I do not see.  And may I find my glory not in the finite plans I make, nor the fickle reality that is right now, but in the knowing of my infinite, glorious, unfathomable God.

Thursday 13 October 2016

Impossibly Slow

My heart decelerates to an impossibly slow rate, each beat exaggeratedly dragging on and allowing my mind far too much time for far too many thoughts.  The first isn't even fully formed before the second knocks it down and the third clambers desperately over them both.  My head is working out the completely irrelevant logistics of what clothes to pack, what toys to send, and how the move-out date fits into our schedule, so that it doesn't have to focus on how exactly I will hand one of my own over to her own and walk away.  The incurably long lulls between each protracted, plodding pulse move time in the most twisted of slo-motion movies.  I watch myself read and reread the email and marvel that I am not crying, not shaking, not panicking.  You can do this, I tell myself.  I hear myself saying that I'm so glad the agency has no absolutes; so glad everything is case-by-case.  A few short months ago, on paper and by the numbers, this was never 'supposed' to end this way.  But how great for H that she has earned the right to parent.  How wonderful for Little Pip to be able to be back with her mom, her dad, her brother, her grandparents, her heritage, her family, her home.  There are more words coming out of my mouth about the wisdom of the powers that be and of the One to Whom Power Belongs.  But the thought that clambers desperately over all the others, is the one I cannot say aloud: I love her deeply and I don't know that I can want what's best for her more than I want what's best for me.  Tonight my grief outweighs her joy.  May she forgive my selfish soul.

Wednesday 12 October 2016

Court Day

Does the alarm wake her from an exhausted, fitful sleep or was she up all night worrying and working through scenario after scenario in which she has no say?

Does the water of the shower washing over her shoulders do anything to ease the anger at those who have taken her baby away?  Or does it multiply the tears of anguish as she looks back and wonders how her life has come to this?

What does she make herself for breakfast on the day she fights to get you back - and can she even eat a bite of it?

What shoes does she choose to walk up the steps and stand in front of the one who will decide whether she is fit to parent or not?

Does she get to court an hour early to make sure she doesn't miss one single moment or does she slip in just before the buzzer to avoid an extra second of scrutiny?

Does someone walk with her and hold her hand in support or does she bravely go it alone?  Does she have your picture in her wallet, on her phone, in her mind?

Has she bought you an adorable, cozy blanket, in hopes that you will come home with her?  Are there toys and stuffed animals waiting in a box that she can't bear to open yet?

Does she think back to the moment she first held you?  Pink, wet, new, perfect?  Can she cling also to the smiles and cuddles of the last months, even if they were all contained to a few hours per week within the same four walls?

Does she cry in front of everyone or wait until she's alone?