It is not easy.
When Hannah has already finished her cereal,
but is still crying, Noah is burying his head in his blanket refusing to eat,
and Dumpster is barking at the door to go out. When I have Bible study to
finish, but I have to schedule meetings at work, but I have to clean the house,
but we haven’t had any food in our fridge for five days (and I mean, no food, unless you want to eat plain
pureed pumpkin with hot sauce). When I hug Justin hello and kiss him goodbye
within the same five minutes. When Noah has a cold and does not sleep all night
(again, not exaggerating, the.boy.did.not.sleep!), Hannah is having a growth
spurt and demands milk at 2:00am, and the mice wonder why I won’t just leave
Dumpster’s food on the ground like a decent hostess. This is when it is not
easy. We are living in the haze.
One of my very dear friends got excellent, fantastic,
the-best-possible-news this week. While others weep for joy, dance for
jubilation, and sing an anthem to our Yahweh, I smile softly as if far off,
watching a butterfly land across a field. I experience joy for her as if
glancing at another universe, strange and distant, behind billows of ‘this isn’t
easy.’
I miss my husband. I’ve been thinking of sending him
postcards at the hospital. My son is a heart-breaker when sick… and I’m pretty
sure he knows it. I don’t know how to provide for my daughter after she turns
one (which is ridiculously, ludicrously soon). I don’t know how to follow at
this moment, when I am watching my feet drag one front, and then the other, and
then, hopefully, usually, the other.
I know it isn’t plague. I know it isn’t war. I know it isn’t
need and famine and death and any other horses being bridled back by the
long-suffering hand of a compassionate King. But it is alone. And it is weak. And
it is not easy.
But sometimes through the haze…
Hannah dances. She takes a few wobbly steps, throws her head
back and forth, claps her hands, and falls straight down to her bottom. She
grins up at me and blows a kiss. And just this once, Noah decides instead of
pushing her out of the way, he will kiss her on the cheek.
Noah will recite his alphabet, which as we all know goes “A
B C D P Cu(Q) S S S E F G…” and so on.
Dumpster will curl up at my feet when I lay down to sleep
because Justin is not there, and a bulldog makes you feel, if nothing else,
secure.
I will catch a glimpse of my husband, and he will be the
same strong, smart, fun, godly man I remember, if a little more tired, and I
will be engulfed in love for him… so much so that I can’t speak.
Sometimes through the haze, God will woo me back towards the light, through the jaws of distress, with moments of miracles and breaths of truth in the wind. His Word will stand. His promise, His Son will stand in my life, and there is no haze that can contain the Captain of Light.
