I pick her up from the floor.
She's asleep, and heavy. Heavier every day.
I wonder when my arms will fail me, when she becomes one ounce too heavy for me to lift.
I try not to live there, in the chasm that is black with fear. At least not for long.
Yet, it's impossible not to fall into the chasm.
I feel I must sometimes.
Not for self-pity or so I can drown in my sorrow.
But, because the future is there.
And I must prepare for it.
Brian and I must prepare for the day when we aren't here.
That means we have to wrap our heads around what the future holds for her.
It's hard to grasp at anything in the dark.
The future. It taunts me. It mocks my joy. It claws at my heart.
Right now, my girl is six years old. Autistic. Physically disabled. Pre-verbal.
A mystery.
I've come to embrace the mystery. There's hope in it.
I don't consider it false hope.
Just hope.
Wrapped in grace.
Who knows what the future will bring? Not just for my girl, but for any of us.
I have to trust. In Him.
It's, by far, the biggest lesson in faith I've ever experienced.
I believe He intended it to be.
But, I am broken. Human. Far short of who I should be.
So, I doubt. I let fear seep into my soul.
My mind swirls into a storm of emotions and guilt and pain.
The clouds overshadow this precious life we are living.
I find I'm consumed with how inadequate I am as her mother.
And as Jacob's mother. Brian's wife.
Again, I try not to live there long.
God, please help me not live there long.
Help me be all You intend for me to be.
When anxiety was great within me, your consolation brought joy to my soul. Psalm 94:19
1 comment:
yes, that is the perfect verse. i used to say that verse to myself over and over when i was working as a missionary in ethiopia.
since i "met" you, i've always admired how you bravely embrace the mystery. you know. you know how God has been faithful, that He has lovingly provided for Olivia and your family. He will continue to hold you. And she is His.
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