First Birthday

It's too bad I'm ready, because when I was up to my eyeballs in scrubbing toilets, doing dishes, and sweeping floors, I was just busily preparing for my baby's first birthday party.  Now the house is neat and tidy and my heart has time to unravel into a selfish mess.  Every milestone is a reminder of the ones I will never see.  Every smile a countdown to the last.  This celebration just points to all the years of parties I will never be invited to.  Because I can love her like she's mine, but she's firstly someone else's.  It's not us or them.  It's them and then, if need be, us.  This daily lesson in being second is more like having my heart trampled on than I would like to admit.  And it colours every moment, making it more difficult and more necessary than ever to behold His glory.

Grey

Don't put me on your side, but don't assume I'm against you either.  Don't paint my with your broad black brush, but don't try to scrub me white either.  Haven't we all been around long enough to dwell in grey?  I am in the fortunate position of not actually having to decide this baby's fate, so please don't make me choose.  I am, oddly, more comfortable in the uncertain than picking a side.

Fraction

If I carry just a fraction of your grief today and you carry just a fraction of mine, perhaps our loads will be just a bit lighter.  And if not lighter, at least they are a different shape for a few hours.  So yes, tell me about your mother's alcoholism, your debilitating depression, your son's classmate's leukaemia, and the nine years it has been since your daughter was stillborn.  I will hold your hands and your grief.  You will hold mine and we will all pray for something outside of the normal loop we are stuck in.  We may not feel stronger because we have loved and lost, but we are more gentle, more kind, more empathetic, more aware, more open, and most definitely not alone.

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.  

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.  

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.

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.

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?

Grief

It sweeps over me in the oddest of places and I wonder what they think of the lady with the stroller, crying in the line for pancakes.  It's awkward and inconsiderate in its timing and refuses to be contained to the corners of my day and my life in which is would be more appropriate or at least less inconvenient.  But please don't try to take this grief from me.  Sure, it hinders my joy.  Certainly, it dampens my carefree spirit.  But, oh, does it shield me from arrogance and ignorance!  It shapes my words with gentleness and opens my eyes with empathy.  It makes my soul bleed compassion and acceptance.  I know it makes you uncomfortable that I can't talk about this without tearing up, but please please don't take this grief from me.  It is what I need to be what she needs.

Catch-22

The trick about it all, is that I need to love you as my child, which doesn't sound that tricky.  But loving you as my child means that I can't imagine a day without you, while I work towards a life without you.  Because they say what's best for you is to learn to love and trust me for now, so that you can learn to love and trust your mom and dad forever, when they are ready.  And this all sounds very reasonable until that moment when I do love you and I realize that I am hoping and praying and working towards something that will break my heart into a million pieces.  Because, Lord help me, I love you as my child.

Beauty for Ashes

Peace snuck up on me as She snuggled in for her bottle and The Three lounged around us on the couch in various stages of planes/rockets/landing pads construction.  You said, "See?  See how full your heart can be?  This is of me."  And from the seed of peace was born a fragile sprout of joy.

My heart wavers, but my feet stand solidly upon this confession: You bestow a crown of beauty for these ashes, joy for this mourning, and praise for this despair.  You are Redeemer and this grief is not the one grief you cannot redeem.

I will not be shaken.  May my heart join me up here on this Rock so that we may sing for joy.

Joy

Choosing joy because You are big enough to bring it forth from these ashes.  Choosing joy because it is only I who cannot see the ending You hold confidently in Your hands.  Choosing joy because she deserves a momma who delights in her.  Choosing joy because I will not colour her world with my grief.  Choosing joy because it is the weapon of the overcomer.  Choosing joy because You rejoice over me with singing.  In the very choosing of joy, I recognize the ever-present grief that this life embodies, but I refuse to give it the power.  This day I will live joyfully.

It's too much and I'm too tired.  The fixing of one mess only leads to the recognizing of another, which I start to remedy only to find a third.  By the time I get to the end of the domino effect, my knees are sore, my head is pounding, and four children have called me forty-seven times and why can't I ever just finish one thing before I start another - if I could remember that one thing in the first place.  It's too much and I'm too tired and the peanut m&ms I'm popping on the way through the kitchen don't even help anymore.  Papa, I can't do this anymore because on top of it all are the things that actually matter.  Like respect and compassion, kindness and love, honesty and integrity.  Or heck, even just table manners.  I can't shape their behaviour and pour into their hearts and pick up their stuff and make their snacks and sing their songs and delight in their ideas and photograph their moments and appreciate their presence and do their laundry and meet their needs.  Papa, it's too much and I'm too tired and can't she just sleep through the night and can't they just pick up their own damn toys and wet towels and listen the first time?  Papa, where is Your glory or Your grace or Your goodness or any of You in all of this?

Bedtime

Sweaty neck curls your dark hair

Rhythmic sucking slows as breathing deepens

Eyes gaze out the glass until they glass over

Pink pajamas crease against mine 

All is right in this moment 

Except that the wrong heartbeat is lulling you to sleep

I wouldn't have it any other way

And yet I desperately would

You are the show-er of splendour.  Open my eyes that I may dwell in the heart of your glory and grace.

The weight in my arms is just the outward manifestation of the weight in my heart.  I unbuckled her from the carseat and she became mine to love and care for.  Maybe not forever, but day in and day out for as long as she will need.  And with her came the weight of her past and her unknowns.  Lord, grant me the grace to carry those burdens with her and treat them and her with the loving respect they deserve.  Grant me the joy to delight in who You have created her to be as I learn to love in a new way.

Psalm 88: 2, 9, 13

My prayers come before You; Your ear is tuned to my cries.  As I walk through this day, Lord, I call to You Who Listens to my words, my heart, my silence.  Open hands stretched out to You, may I let go of the need for my ways, my plans, my desires, my childish game of control.  In the morning my prayer comes before You and all day long You whisper back Your glorious goodness into my middle moments.

Remember When

Remember when I awoke in Your embrace?  When the rhythm of my soul echoed the footsteps of Your spirit treading through my home?  When the sighs of my day were wrapped in Your glorious grace and the moments of beholding were frequent and meaningful?  As the deer pants for the water, so my soul longs for You, Papa.  I miss our closeness and Your moment-by-moment care for me.  I miss our closeness and my moment-by-moment clinging to You.  I miss the overflowing of joy into thanksgiving.  Of struggle into reliance.  Of silence into song.  Of breath into praise.

Thunderous Peace

For where His glory thunders like the mighty waters, Hi grace drizzles gently and I am humbled yet  again.  I am washed clean of my allegiance to pride and perfection, refreshed as I step out from under storm clouds of my own making.  I lift my head up to soak up the brilliance of His face.  This One whose blazing radiance overwhelms as He opens heaven here.  And there.  And there again.  And I find myself under the umbrella of His unending grace, where He showers His glory moment by moment.

Rushing Waters (Ezekiel 1:24)

Your glory sounds like rushing waters and looks like radiant rainbows.
It sounds like noisy castle play and looks like grinning babies.
It sounds like giddy snow tricks and looks like sopping mittens.
It sounds like chatting over crunching and looks like a colourful fruit plate.
It sounds like devastation over missing a brother and looks like cuddles and a lollipop.
It sounds like a book hitting the bottom stair and looks like a family that is okay with that.

Accomplished (Lam 4:22)

Papa, You could have walked away and left me in my own ugliness.  Yet you considered me worth the trouble of rescuing, in my brokenness and messiness.  My punishment is accomplished and not on my own head.  You carried it all away, what had happened and what was yet to come, such that you can somehow look at these ashes and proclaim them already beautiful.  Your grace to me is matched by Your glory in me, even as yet when I catch it only in glimpses.  Because You declare it is accomplished.

Of His Mercies (Lam 3:22)

It is of the Lord's mercies that I am not consumed
Of His mercies that His glory is my daily experience
Of His mercies that patience and grace fill me enough to overflow
Of His mercies that I see the beautiful hearts and fall in love once again
Of His mercies that my story is saturated with His goodness
Of His mercies that my match loves me as I love him
Of His mercies that I live and breathe and have my being
Because His compassion fails me not

Instinctual (Lam 2:18)

Your absence is palpable, haunting in its pervading sense of Empty.  Its footsteps thump out L-o-n-e-l-y as I trudge down the hall the fourth time to re-put him to bed, the one whose heart only comes out by the glow of the nightlight.  Going through the motions, I feel love alright, but Exhaustion overrides it.  This is too hard without Your song to carry me.  Even as the rhythms of desperate self-talk threaten to holler over Your melody, my soul's instinct is to cry out to You (Lam 2:18).  And my words follow, in the way they were created to, as I draw near to You (Heb 10:22).  As surely as goodness and mercy follow me this day, I will open my eyes to Your glory and grace.

My heart longs for its Maker, the One its adores.  His presence has waned and His absence is poignant, and I sink to my knees.  I am sorry, Papa.  You love me and you let me walk away.  I am so sorry.  Papa, today I want to see You, to hear You, to keep in step with the rhythms of your grace.  Prompt me, prod me, and interrupt me this day, that I might know more of You.  And that, in some small way, You might be amazed at me.

They are going to ask me today how I am doing.  Sometimes it is easier than what you see.  Sometimes it is harder.  Sometimes it is calmer, sometimes wilder.  Sometimes I am calmer, sometimes angrier.  There are times when I am just doing.  Not much emotion attached, be it positive or negative.  Quite possibly a self-preservation technique as much as just exhaustion.  But there are so many times when I am both melting and swelling on the inside.  So many moments that I wish the camera could capture in their adorableness, heart-warmingness, growingness, hilariousness, memorableness, noisiness, ridiculousness, honest to goodness.  I just want to slow down and breathe in the tops of their heads and the bottoms of their feet.  I love them so and I desperately want them to know.