The Miracle

 My baby sister recently took time to write. I was incredibly proud of her...and suddenly reminded I too, should write down my thoughts. 

I’ve thought about writing. I tend to start posts in my brain. But that is not the same as actually writing and putting it out there. It is not the same as sharing it. And who knows? Maybe I will write and then not share for a few weeks. 

It has been difficult to write lately. Or to work in my art journals. If I’m being honest it’s been difficult to get out of bed. 

Every day right now I wake up and think “Is today the day my mom is going to call me and tell me my dad is dead? Is this it?” 

When was the last time I told him I loved him? What was the last meal I got to cook for him? Did I get a picture of me and him together? Are my baby sisters ok? I’m so far away from them...how can I be there for them and be a present mom? 

How do you grieve when the person isn’t dead and you have a life to live? 

How do you remember to find joy when every day feels tsunami waves of pain and hurt? 

We are house sitting for friends before we finally move to our own house. My kids, for the first time in two months, get to just be us. While I am so incredibly grateful for the people who have opened their homes for us, I have seen the toll it has taken on my children. Finally Ana is sleeping better, Ellie isn’t constantly overwhelmed, Dean has been whining less. 

Today Ana and Dean were silhouetted in the window while they played blocks together. Ellie made a whole town out of beanie babies. I spilled coffee on all our new school curriculum. Ellie drew pictures of Earthquakes. Ana ate a red marker. Dean practiced writing his name. 

Life goes on. 

It is beautifully slow today. And in the back of my mind I’m wondering how my Daddy is. I’m wondering how my Mama is. I wonder if she needs me to take her shopping at the mall, to get away from my Dad, from the grief that can be stifling. I wonder if my Dad wants me to make him French toast casserole or bacon and eggs. 

I just want to sit next to him and kiss his hands again. 

I want my art studio back up. So I can start the Painting. The one that’s been in my brain for months now but I can’t bring myself to even sketch out. I believe God has given me a creative heart to help people heal and grieve. But when it’s my own grief it feels deeply emotional and vulnerable. Writing is one thing...painting it...

I keep thinking about that stupid song “Live Like You we’re Dying”.  What a load of complete crap. 

Dying is harsh and brutal and consuming. It hurts. My dad doesn’t feel like sky diving or Rocky Mountain climbing. Or any of the other crap that stupid song sounds like. He *barely* made it to Chuckie Cheese with us. He got tired and had to leave. (Not that I’m knocking it, I’m incredibly proud and thankful we made that happen.) 

See this blog doesn’t make sense, does it? I can’t explain my thoughts. Some days I take all this in with Grace and Faith and some days I want to crawl back in my bed and pretend like my Dad doesn’t have cancerous brain tumors that are slowly, but surely, killing him. 

Oh and I get it guys. I know you’re tired of hearing about this. I know it’s depressing. I know I’m sort of a negative Nancy bitter Betty and I’m not particularly fun to be around. I know when people ask me how my dad is doing you don’t want to hear “Oh he’s dying slowly, so ya know, it’s pretty crappy.” But that’s literally every thought that consumes my mind. I don’t ever get to forget. 

None of my family does. 

I know a lot of families are broken and messed up and not close at all. Me and my family? We’re definitely broken and messed up but I would argue we are closer than most. I love my brothers. I love my sisters. I love my sisters in law, I love my future brothers in law. I love my nieces and nephews. I love seeing them. I love being with them. 

I hate that I can’t shoulder their grief along with my own. I hate that, for whatever reasons, God closed the doors in Tennessee and opened them here in Virginia. 

I hate that my father is slowly dying. I hate that I pray for God to end this quickly. God help me, I do. I hate it.  I hate that I panic every time my phone rings. 

And yet...my life keeps moving. Kids need teaching, diapers need changing, art needs to be made, people in my house insist on eating like a million meals a day, bills still have to be paid. 

And it all feels wrong. Because my world isn’t spinning and I feel like the rest of the world should stop too. 

Maybe by this time next year he will be in Heaven. Maybe it will all have ended and I will look back on these endless days and see the small spark of Gods plan running through it all.  Or maybe I won’t. Maybe I will never know why God chose *this* until I’m in heaven with My Jesus and my Daddy and my Babies. 

And maybe there is no big miracle meant for my Daddy. 

Maybe the big miracle is that we, my mother, my father , my siblings...all of us, maybe the miracle is we continue to chose to love God. 

Knowing He could end all of this, right now, and do a miracle so big...

We know this. And we all still chose to say, “God is good. All the time. All the time. God is good.” 

Miscarriages? God is good. 

Heart defect? God is good. 

Terminal brain cancer? God is good. 

Slow death? God. Is. Good.