Joy and Sorrow

I’m this splattered puddle of emotions today.

There’s this sweet surprise of joy found right here squished between scrubbing bathroom floors and shaking whipping cream to concoct this buttery science experiment.

And there’s this ache of missing my daddy that – after eleven years – I know will always be here in the way her dazzling eyes light up the the room, in his dimpled smile, in them growing and laughing and changing, and in the simple watching-out-the-window moments of my days.

There are more tears and more smiles than I thought there would be as I remember…

It’s been eleven years – forever ago and just yesterday all wrapped into one.

And the memories are all faded and jumbled.

But I remember my tummy. How the knots squeezed tight on my belly swollen so round that I couldn’t see over or around or through.

And two babes toddled at my feet as I inhaled and exhaled the pain.

Five minutes and I felt the contractions deep once again – searing as I tried to play a game of peek-a-boo.

Breathe. Just breathe.

And I didn’t know that the pain was only beginning.

That hours later – after coming home from the doctor with baby’s arrival no longer imminent – my heart would shatter right there on the bare floor.

That snarled hair would wipe tears that I couldn’t even cry as I cradled the babe inside of me.

I had hoped for new life that day and the sweetness of birth – instead I faced the death of my daddy.

My-Daddy.jpg

my-daddy-and-me.jpg

Phone calls and cards and I couldn’t even talk. And flowers and gas money and meals poured in. Was I suppose to be crying more?

People tell you that everyone grieves differently, but when you’re in the middle of heart-wrenching grief, you feel as if you’re doing it all wrong.

One day later and this check of money comes in the mail from this man I just lost. No note. No “I love you” in the memo. I’m not sure whether to spend it, rip it up, or frame it and his all-capital-letter-handwriting forever.

Suitcases packed. Pictures found. Hundreds of miles traveled with two tiny toddlers and feeling those contractions hard and tight with clenched fists and a lip bitten raw every three minutes.

A hand reached over to grasp my own, wondering if we needed to find a hospital or pull the car over to have this baby right there on the side of the road.

Breathe. Just breathe.

And pray long and deep.

And it was like God came and rested His hand on my aching belly.

A miracle that I could still feel her sweet kicks as her little body enwrapped in mine, but could no longer feel the pains of contracting.

Through funeral arrangements and picture boards and sleepless nights and so much remembering.

Through Dairy Queen runs with tear-stained eyes and two pig-tailed girls bringing joy to everyone.

Through agonizing good-byes. Through longing for more. More time. More talks. More precious memories.

I felt His strength and I felt His peace to keep going even when it hurt to breathe.

Still hours from home with little ones finally tucked snuggly in bed – me and my scar stretched to fit a basketball belly scrambled up on top of the toilet frantically knocking on the wall beside me. I tried to get away from the tiny black mouse trying to make my acquaintance in the night.

And did I know that everyone in the next room thought I was in labor as they came running?

Breathe. Just breathe.

It felt good to smile. Even over a mouse.

And I couldn’t go back, but God came in the beautiful ugly. As God comes to us in all moments.

Kayla just born

In empty hearts and death aching. And a newborn’s cries and love unending.

In a baby who saw my tears when no one else did. Who gave me smiles when I wasn’t sure I could breathe again.

Inhaling and exhaling God in each moment.

baby girl

Today tears trickle down for the eleven years and for the memories that will last a lifetime.

And my ten days shy of being eleven years old daughter, with eyes so much like her Papa’s, peeks her head in and smiles at me and hugs me long.

And the sun is shining, and there is beauty, and there is joy in the oh, so murky.

Comments

  1. Mom Norton says:

    Sending love and hugs today as you remember you dad. Love you all!

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