Sometimes life freaking sucks. No apologies to the people
who have issues with a Christian mama pushing thirty saying such immature
words. Whatev. Life freaking sucks. And my dear friends my children are safe
with me, living in health and happiness. They roll their eyes (to themselves.
If I saw them rolling they know they would be in profound trouble. No
disrespect for parents tolerated up in here) when I ask them to do the dishes.
And after that they each have to go potty. You know how that works. They have
to deal with my quirks. And I assure
you, there are quirks a plenty. They don't have their own rooms. We don't go on vacations. But they, in my opinion, have an incredible
childhood.
I've been told there
is a tangible love that exists in our home.
I know that is the opposite reality for far too many children in this
world. Our children know this is a place where creativity is encouraged,
childhood is cherished and Daddy and
Mama seek to make many little dreams come true. When talking about
Europe today, Averyn actually asked if we could take her to Paris for her tenth
birthday. At first, it struck me as selfish and extreme for a little farm girl
who knows her Mama wants wood floors but might never get them. But then I
discovered a bit of honor in her request. She has security that her parents want
to make her dreams a reality and that we still have dreams of our own.
I guess I mentioned
my want for new floors because its fresh in my mind. Calieah Joy just traced a
deep scratch in our linoleum with her sticky strawberry fingers when I started
typing. "Mom, this is ugly, don't you think? I wish we could get a new
kitchen floor but probably we can't cause we already spent most of our money
for Summer Feeter." Summer Theatre.
I don't start correcting pronunciations until second grade because its a
lingering crumb of baby left on a trail that leads to adulthood far too
quickly. Yes, we paid more than felt
comfy for her and her two older sisters to participate in summer theatre but it
was a little dream that we were thrilled to make come true. Rabbit trail. I just want to say that someone
with an incredible life can still think that life freaking sucks. I've stopped
feeling guilty for my own suffering and you should too.
I've always been
compassionate. I remember a Christmas growing up that sticks out to me today as
a mark that I was an unusually compassionate child. I sat in my room and cried
because I had snuck downstairs before anyone woke up to peek at what wait under
the tree. I wasn't expecting much. Bread
Basket trips in our pajamas, Christmas gifts from "Jesus" and Mom
crying in secret. Worry over her face because she wanted to give her girls
dreams served with ribbons. I cried that morning because there were far more
gifts than I ever imagined. I cried because I knew there were little girls who
would wake up to nothing and not just an absent dad but a figment mommy too. I
wrote in my journal that we didn't deserve this.
That deep compassion
has made it difficult for me to accept my own pain. It has been a struggle for me to relish in the
happy times because I feel guilty for feeling so much joy when someone,
somewhere is mourning. When my babies caught a cold I found it impossible to
find genuine words to pray for them
because I knew that a mama somewhere was crying out to far away God with tears
streaming over her child's lifeless body. " God doesn't care about your
baby's cough. Coffins are his cue to comfort," lies my compassion. I don't
know if it's being tired of denying my own feelings of fear and suffering or if
its maturity, but I have taken a step toward pain and letting myself wait there
for a moment before I think of someone else's torment. I will never rid myself
of care for those who are hurting but I've realized that sometimes, I am that person and that is okay. Sometimes I need help, extra extra grace and
sometimes I just need to say I AM SCARED AND THIS SUCKS!
My husband is in
pain. These months following Aaron's accident I have operated in that fear of
our own trials. When people ask me how he is doing, I don't know how to
respond. I say something along the lines that we are so thankful he is here. It
was a miracle and he is doing great. All of that is true. I have a nagging
feeling that they don't want to hear anything other than that. And then I have
this harassing burden that I dare not say anything else because he indeed is
alive. I look into his eyes. I hear his boot stomps through the kitchen that fill me with
excitement to see his dirt covered face at the end of the day. I hear his
annoying clanking of his spoon against his bowl to get every tiny bit of
cereal. I hear his laugh and his prayers. I don't mention that I hear his
wincing cries in pain every night as he tries to find a way to sleep. Doctors
said he is fine so who am I to mention how it pains me to hear his pain. I thank
God every day for my husband. Every day I bow to God's control. I am keenly
aware that he is sovereign over every breath. Every tear. But what about my tears? I've now let them flow knowing
that he holds mine with the same tenderness as he holds the widows. And so with freedom I declare that life
sucks. If you ever question my thankfulness, you don't know me.
Aaron had an MRI tonight. The pain seemed to be triggered
unexpectedly and has not subsided this time. The pain is overwhelming on his
body. And its overwhelming to witness my hero have no power over the things he
would have ignored before. Have you ever seen him coach t ball? It made me smile just typing that. I wonder
what I look like. Tears and cheesy grin, crooked glasses and smeared makeup on this tired face. Its a wonder he calls me beautiful nearly
every day. And when I least expect it too. When he coaches t ball he is like
one of the kids. Full of energy, running around, encouragement on the wing and
you just know this guy is the real deal. He's so cute and so happy and so
natural when he is coaching little kids. But this Saturday I watched him sit in
the dugout, anger I could see covered by a fake smile. He walked back to the
car hunched backed, slow, unsure steps. When we got through the door he collapsed on
the couch, covering his face. Covering the truth of the concern from this pain.
I'm too tired to type much more. I trust God, I do. I truly believe in his sovereignty
but until all wrongs are made right and pain is gone, I hate this. I hate
seeing the one I love suffer. The one who always goes, to stop. The one who always helps to
need it for himself. Far too soon this torment has come to his body. Far too
soon it comes to us all. Our souls suffer from breath one. Our bodies decay and
those who try to make it stop only look like fools because deep down we all
know we are merely a vapor. But for now we hold hands. I run my fingers through
his hair. I take walks with little girl under the crescent moon and watch the
fields my farmer planted sparkle with fireflies. We talk about how God can be
trusted. We call his name when we are happy and when we have forgotten what a
deep breath feels like. I took a deep breath tonight and found grace in a cool
breeze. If I hadn't let myself feel pain and let myself seek solace outside
then I would have never known that deep breath of cool air on a humid summer's
night is exactly what I needed. I found
grace in happy steps and funny words that don't understand suffering yet
because Mama makes dreams come true and she isn't yet in second grade. And he
is waiting for me when I walk back in that door. And HE is waiting for me when
I tell him how much it hurts.
