August 20, 2014
It’s 4:44 in the afternoon and I’m sipping coffee from my pretty new mug that was an anniversary gift from Jeffrey. We just celebrated 11 years on Saturday. So much can happen in 11 years.
I came upstairs to scratch out some thoughts on my laptop and sat on my bed to hear a crinkling noise. My 4-year-old boy has left me a surprise under my pillow. Drawings of buildings and super-heroes in action, leaping from high places.
Amazing. I love him. Lots of amazing things have happened in 11 years. I choose joy. Rebecca is kicking and I just commented to someone a few minutes ago that our girls’ bedroom is full, but I hope to get to squeeze Rebecca in there one day. Knowing that only a miracle from The Giver will make this possible.
Some have remarked about how strong I am. How inspirational.
But that’s just it. In the amazing stories, it’s generally the weak and ordinary ones who get to play a lead role. The ones who wouldn’t have chosen to be in this story at all. Would I have? Just months ago, the thought of losing a child would cause my breath to stall, my knees to shake. Lord, please don’t ever ask that of me.
But here I am. I am not strong; He is.
I am not full of faith; He is faithful.
I am not an inspiration; He is altogether Lovely and Loving and inspiring and weaving something beautiful from the ashes.
Didn’t I just say that in an email to one of my best friends? God’s story never ends in ashes. I’ve had that written to me by at least three people on three separate occasions in the past week. I guess it’s sinking in.