|my boys, two years ago|
And my insides hurt. I think I let a grimace go on my face that should've stayed hidden. I'm letting the flood force through the cracks of hurt more often now. If you happened to remember and asked me how I've been, "since the... since the, well", I'd probably do a little choke-cry and tell you the same thing I've been saying for the past few months. It makes me so sad. I'm so shocked how sad it makes me.
The difference is now, I'm not sad. Not like wholly, completely SAD.
More like joyful and expectant, with these sprouts of sad coming up through the cracks when I see fluffy yellow sleepsacks.
It makes me want to stand over the me of two years ago, like the ghost of christmas yet to come, and frown. The me of two years ago who packed up the newborn diapers and probably made a joke about it. The me of two years ago who was so cavalier when she declared "we're done". Oh, sweet foolish lady. To think it's your right to declare. To section off your body, your arms, your money, your heart and say no more? And the me of today looks up at Him in quiet moments and says, "no more, huh?", feeling quite like a bratty kid who should probably have all her candy taken away but is just wondering if she could have more piece without getting absolutely sick to her stomach?
And please, please don't think for a second, Lord, that this is all not enough. These THREE kids. THREE. That I don't deserve. That are kind of my favorite people on earth. This husband. That comes home each day and still loves me. You. You alone. You're more than enough to start with. So I'm not saying what if we don't have more. Because I know the answer is that you will still be good, and holy, and more than enough. And I know that my hands and my head are full with enough to care for. With the three, and the church, and the internet, and did I mention the three? And the orphans? The hundred and twenty seven million. We could never add another thing more, much less another person, and still be busy. Blessedly busy. And poured out. And still needing to do more.
But then I walk by the fluffy yellow sleepsack and I want to stand over me from two years ago.
To force her to nuzzle against the blanket-like cloth just once more.
Maybe not even force her, just lovingly URGE her.
To look down and imagine.
Because what if you don't again.