I’ve cried more this week than I can remember in recent months.
I wept for the family I wrote of recently. I prayed and then I cried, not because I’m terribly close to this family, but because in faith and in motherhood, we are alike. We have daughters the same age, we both went to the same Christian college, she is one of the handful who was with me in Romania.
And on Thursday, she was a mother giving birth, to say goodbye. Her daughter lived less than two hours in her arms, but it was her faithfulness and ability to lift her eyes, to praise the Lord even in that moment – in that moment – the one no parent ever wants to live through – that made me weep.
How amazing to read her testimony, even that morning, that afternoon, as the hours passed. I cried, knowing that the miracle I had been praying for, wasn’t even as great as the one being given. I had been praying for a miracle of flesh, for a human body to somehow astonish the world and thrive beyond belief. But the miracle that was given, was far more astounding, and quite simple something I cannot fully understand – because it was a peace and comfort that surpasses all human understanding.
This weekend, we escaped to a cabin – just Vinnie and I and two of our best friends.
Here, in the midst of feeling the best I have in months, emotionally, physically – I cried like a baby over a music video (for a song that I don’t even like) and then I wept again, watching Big Fish.
I even got teary eyed watching Memento.
Oh, we laughed a great deal as well, but, for whatever reason (thinking of other’s losses, watching movies about loss) my heart and my brain are circling back, round and around, with heavy steps to this terrible, sinking feeling of letting go. The inevitable moment that will someday come, when I will have to say goodbye to Vinnie, to my children, to anyone that I love.
I guess, you could say, what I have been feeling is the opposite of the peace that surpasses understanding. While my friend, and others in this world, are truly heartbroken and yet, sustaining on heavenly peace – I’m feeling sorrow for losses that haven’t even happened.
I’m letting my heart be defeated, my joy be deflated, by a moment that has not come.
Vinnie is right here. I touched his arm just a moment ago. I ate beside him, laughed beside him, laid my head on his shoulder as we watched a movie. His half of the bed will be warm beneath the weight of his slumbering body tonight. He is right here.
And I’m ready to stop wasting the moment we’re living in, worrying over and weeping for a moment that will be given it’s due, in full, when the day comes.
In the morning, we are leaving. We will be wiping counters, stuffing laundry into bags and driving the hour back to our home, where our four kids, a dog and a cat are waiting. Where life and social media and email in-boxes and prayer requests are all waiting. Where bad things happen.
But it’s where good things happen too.
We will laugh on the ride home. We will listen to songs that remind us of our past, and some that speak to our hearts in this moment. We will hold hands down some of these NH back roads and point out places we’d like to check out next time we’re up this way.
And my eyes will be on the road ahead, just what we can see, what we need to get us safely around each corner, together.
And no more.