We’re building a deck.
At the moment, our yard looks like a war zone… it’s posts sticking up from the ground, it’s dusty bags of cement and piles of pressure treated wood planks. It’s a mess.
Trust the process, someone said to me, when I questioned if the support beams were all the same height, even though they looked lopsided and wonky to me, and I pictured a future of summers where I feel tilted while eating out on our deck.
I took a breath.
Trusting the process takes patience and faith.
I smiled. I poured a drink.
The past three weeks have been an Olympic sized event in trust, for me. I’ve had to put my faith in others, strangers, more than a handful of times, each one telling me… it’s going to be okay.
You see, three weeks ago Evie had an accident. She and Alex were on our rope swing and… he stumbled. The momentum picked up too quickly and my littlest child went flying off and sliced open the top of her nose, right by her eye.
We spent the next ten hours, overnight, driving from hospital to hospital, each doctor pointing us to another… to specialists, to surgeons who would make her good as new. We hoped.
But, it was all just so much waiting.
So. Much. Waiting.
Trust the process.
I’m not a patient person. I don’t walk, I run. If I want something, I work toward it. If I need something from someone, I coax. If I think I can do it faster, I will. My husband, children, family and closest friends could tell you, more than I’d probably appreciate, about my impatience.
I eat fast. I talk fast. I write fast. I shoot fast.
I even gave birth fast.
I sat in the dentist’s waiting room yesterday… waiting… with palpable anxiety over being so still for so long.
I scrolled through deck furniture. I added new hanging globe lights to our Amazon cart.
I looked up cocktail recipes and appetizer ideas for a party we’re hosting in the coming weeks.
I fidgeted and I texted whiny Bitmojis and blurbs to my husband and friend.
I did anything I could to not think about the waiting….
To not think about the fact that the surgeon who, at a follow-up appointment on Monday, insisted we need to act quickly, immediately, on my child’s broken nose and bumpy scar tissue, yet, hadn’t yet called me back to confirm our appointment. The one we were supposed to be at, today.
Vinnie finally spoke with their office. They were waiting on insurance to call them back.
So… we wait another week, for something that should’ve been done weeks ago, as the broken bone in her nose only gets more and more solidly healed over, without being in its proper place.
And, so, in the waiting room of the dentist, I online shopped and daydreamed and did my best to not think of the waiting.
The hygienist called Evie and I in.
Oh, sweetheart, she gasped while snapping the paper bib around my daughter’s neck. Then turning to me, she lowered her voice and asked, was she attacked by a dog?
Trust the process.
The process is slow and hard.
It’s walking beside your husband as he’s carrying your daughter, her head wrapped in gauze and resting on his shoulder. It’s making sure that you have everything – paperwork from the first two hospitals, car keys, the small stuffed bunnies that an ER nurse gave her an hour earlier.
It’s playing I Spy, like it’s your most favorite game in the entire universe, at 2:30 in the morning when your phone has died but your daughter still has hours to go before someone will come and suture up the gash on her face…the one you can’t bring yourself to look at for more than short glances.
It’s nodding and signing and listening to so many different doctors, but only taking in small words here or there, because the calling out of your heart is just growing and growing and you’re certain that, at any moment, you’re going to stand on your chair and plead for “SOMEONE to PLEASE just come FIX my daughter!”
I couldn’t lace my sneakers fast enough, after two hours at the dentist. I had to move, to shake off the worry, the fear, the helplessness. But the words kept rising to the top of my thoughts, like fizzy bubbles.
Trust the process. Trust the process. Trust the process.
Was she attacked by a dog?
What if I don’t?
This isn’t a deck. This isn’t a matter of leaning a little to the left while sipping a cocktail and looking out over my yard.
This is my daughter’s face. Her sweet, beautiful face, touched by a stumble, changed by a moment… and the process we’ve been trusting, might never actually make it right.
So, I said it, aloud in my heart. I stopped running and put my hands on my sweaty knees and let my heart cry out, what if I don’t trust the process?
The response was instant and clear, a bolt to my soul.
Do you trust me?
This morning, Evie is in the next room, humming along to the tinkering sounds of whatever computer game she’s playing. Her dirty, summer-loving- feet are swinging under the table.
She really could not care less that she’s not at the doctor’s right now, fixing her nose or smoothing the tissue by her eye.
She is five and thinks her scar looks like she’s been through battle and that her wonky, crooked nose, looks like her father’s.
I nudge all of the kids to go outside.
Evie is the first to go. Full speed ahead. (To the rope swing.)
Watching her through the window, I know that patience is a virtue that I may never have, but also that feeling helpless and worrisome, over trusting in the hands who weaved my daughter together in my womb, is a choice.
And, for today, at least, I’m going to choose to be like Evie.
i’m going to trust the process.
(Full speed ahead.)