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.