Journaling:: During the Wait

Sharing some of the more emotional side of this journey. 

A little more journal, and raw, and a lot less factual..... 

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He is still there. My God. He is on that Throne. 

It will not be moved. It will not be shaken. 

And I know it, as we shift eyes and steer conversations away from the Wait.  

As we muster up smiles and shurg off sighs. 

I regurgitate all the Christian-ese that everyone else wants to hear. It is indeed peppered in truth; but manufactured in emotion.

I know the Truth in all things.

So, I preach the gospel to myself. I preach. And I preach, and I pray. 

And I know that the love of Jesus is the only Truth that heals. 

I know that the Grace of God is the only strength weak hearts will feel coursing through their veins. 

And I choose. 

I choose joy. 

I choose peace. 

I choose to trust. 

I choose to live fully in the fights and bickering of young boys. 

I choose to smile at the curls and dirt and insects that fill my home.

I choose beach and sand and squeals and splashing. 

I choose to stretch my eyes over the bridges to the horizon of the sea as it passes in moments.

And, yet, at night, when it all slows down. When the darkness fades from summer sun,

I let it breath at times. The Ache. 

The reality that my daughter is half-way around the world and another human being that we do not know may {or may not} be taking care of her is suffocating. That is a fact. And for a Mother who is overly caution on anyone who takes care over her children without her presence, this is a harsh reality.

Beth Moore preaching from James in our women's Bible study states that Joy and Anguish can co-exist. And I can tell you, I am living that out. It seems odd to say that waiting for a child can result in anguish. But, this is a different wait.

I fail miserably at blowing rainbow sunshine at anyone when situations unravel. When pain creeps in. When reality pulls up a chair to the table and pours himself another glass of wine. The Truth never leaves and pain never becomes unreal. But, I've sworn off band-aids and voted for bleeding on the table and cleaning up the mess. 

So, here is my mess. I ache.

I search the websites of the organizations online. 

I look into the eyes of each little girl with similar medical conditions that could be like our daughter's.

And I pray. And in my heart, I talk to that baby. Just like a Mama talks to the baby in her womb. I find my hands clutching my heart more often than not because she didn't come from my womb; but she's in my heart.

 

And I continue to search as I wait. At naptime, and at night, I scroll the pages. I google the towns. I look at the faces of the care-givers. I read the lists. And I pray. And I plead to God for mercy for our girl.

And then sometimes, sometimes I dare to draw back the curtain, and enter another room. 

And her face is there. 

Her hands. Her heart. 

She probably did not have a choice. She most likely could not parent this baby legally. 

Her Baby.         My Baby.           Our Baby. 

And I ache for that Mother whose heart I share. And in the midst of that layer, as my heart reaches for hers, I know that only the God of the Universe can knit hearts together for his Good! Only His Redemption reaches this deep to the places of a mother that faces the loss of a child.

And then still, on some nights, I follow the wizard behind the final curtain. To the place where all the faces multiply to thousands and millions. Lines blur. Time is caught in fistfuls of wind.  

I lay in the dark, my heart feels as if it could break free from my ribs. And my breath is caught in lumps of air. And I can feel it. I can feel the weight of the lonely who are not yet set in their families. And it is suffocating. The numbers. The reality. The horrific facts. The system. The messy system.

The physical pressure is tangible. I do not lie when I say that I can, in moments,  feel the weight of it. The depravity. Only for a moment, thank you, Jesus. For I was not meant to bear that weight. I will not climb on a Cross to save this world. I will not be the Redeemer. Yet, in His Grace, He lets us in. To the suffering. To the immense pain. At times, a strange gift is given when reality is revealed.

And so I cry. I wail. I sob. I squeeze fist to flesh. I feel finger nails to roots of hair. 

I push covers back. Feet to floor, I open doors and press my cheek to my son's and then run fingers through curls of our youngest. To remember. To see miracles. To see His children home.

And I breath. And I ache.  I can feel the rush, the outpouring of Grace. The hope. I can hear the calm waters. I can see the Truth. 

I reach for it with white knuckled faith. I stomp my feet in anger. Then in raw determination. Then in hope. Fists pound air.

Blood shot eyes darting back and forth in the darkness. Almost hoarse at times, I whisper:
"Please, Jesus. Please, Jesus. You make all things sad come untrue. You Redeem. You Rescue. Let Your Kingdom Come. Let Your Will Be Done. You are My Father and Hers!" 

And so, I rest in the end game. I know the stories/y's end. And yet, as the pages turn so slowly. As ink smears to parchment on our own small journey, as we live fully in each moment...

I wait. 

I ache. 

I hope.