The View From Here

There is so much running through my head and heart right now, so much that wants to overflow onto the page (er, screen).  But with so little time to write I find myself overwhelmed to wordlessness when I finally do have a moment to spill it all out.

What can I say to you, from right here and now?

I can say that I grow more and more in love with our rainbow son each day, even through frustration over sleepless nights and nap-less days, in love to the point of pain.  I did and did not know that a person could love like this.  It is too big for words. 

I can say that grief sneaks up on me still, and hits me hard.  I don't go looking for it, but it finds me anyway and I crumble.  When I stumble across a beautiful dress that would have been perfect for my now one year old curly haired daughter.  When someone sees the three of us, my husband and son and I, and says that it's our whole family.  When I see something on Pinterest about creating a piece of art for your family, and it wrings my heart out to know our family will forever be incomplete. 

I can say that the tears still come at night.  And during the day.  I wish she was here with us.

I can say that the time I've been able to snatch in five and ten minutes pieces, pieces filled with art-making, having been glorious and rejuvenating.  Whenever a free moment presents itself, I draw or paint or write without even considering.  I am learning just how important creating is to me -- after from my loved ones, and God, it is everything, it seems.

I can say that I still enjoy my new bangs, thank goodness.  That I try to be bold when I can.  

I can say that I am thinking a lot about God, and about what it means to trust Him.  I didn't do a very good job trusting Him during our son's pregnancy, and while at the time I thought that was okay, that it would get better once he was born, it hasn't -- I still want to control our every waking moment with a white knuckle grip, full of anxiety over the "what ifs."  That is no way to live.

I can say that I am terrified that our son will leave this earth before I do.  Terrified beyond the telling of it.  

I can say that I alternately seem to fall deeper into love with the Best Husband Ever and butt heads with him over parenting issues.  I can say that I expected this, and yet didn't.  I can turn so ugly. 

I can say that I am learning about love, and what it means to die to yourself.  The learning curve is steep, and humbling.

I can say that it is sometimes painful to realize how very little my son looks like me, when our daughter looked a lot like me.  And yet I also realize that this is probably also a blessing, because even with the two of them looking so different, my husband and I still sometimes think that it's Eve in our arms and not her brother.

I can say that I want a daughter, a daughter that stays here on earth with her brother, a daughter to dress in turquoise tutus and rainbow tights and baby gowns.  I can say that this scares me, too -- that I'm afraid if we had a daughter I would try to make her fill her sister's shoes.  That I wouldn't have enough love for three children.

I can say that it is difficult and strange and confusing thinking about what might have been, and what is, and what I hope for, and reconciling the three.  

I can say that I am making new art, and turning it loose into the world.  Here is one new thing.  It makes me think of one of my favorite books, Little Women.

I can say that I am also making more of these, and it is powerful, for me and for the parents with aching hearts who receive them.  (Follow along on Instagram, if you like, to see new creations as they develop).

I can say that it is a joy to daily watch my son slowly and yet not-slowly-enough unfurl new petals of growth and growing up.  He is the delight of my heart.  How is he already three and a half months old?

I can say that I wonder if my child should be the delight of my heart, or if he is taking a space that is God's own. 

I can say that I am tired.  That I am here.  That I am thankful.

That is enough.  That is a lot.  So much, in fact.  I am living in beauty and blessing.

13 weeks 

 digital art play

Love Rains Down

original

good morning, world!

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