Angel Baby

I woke in the night with fresh memories on my mind. I could have sworn there was an ambulance outside, because the red and blue lights were so real.. filling my room and reflecting off the white walls. It's true that as time goes by the distance between aches gets longer and longer.. but it's always there. I think of that angel boy every day. His smiley face is in my bathroom. I see him when I first see myself in the morning. And yet the picture of him in my dreams last night.. the one that lingered in my mind for hours after I woke.. it made me ache to my core. And the memories flood in without warning.. and there is no controlling them. "Tell me about the happy memories," but thinking of them just makes me ache more.. for a boy that used to me mine. The day he was born. The day they brought him home. The day he first showed us that sweet smile. The day I held him while he slept.. all sweaty:). The days I lotioned and dressed him.. and oh how he hated lotion. The way his big sissy adored him. His chubby neck from the back:). His goofy giggle that lasted for such a short time. Why do the sweet memories hurt too? I see him sweet and bitter. I see him in all the ways.. I carry him with me. That baby boy I saw for the first time. The one that my sister, my best friend, shared with me. The baby boy that I fell in love with. The first boy that stole my heart in ways I would have never imagined. The way I couldn't wait to get to him and get him in my arms. How hard it was to leave him.. always. I'd linger at the door and make plans for my next visit. That baby boy that I found. The one that was never the same. The one hooked up to all the machines. The one fighting. The way it tore me up and left me undone. And I'm on my knees.. broken. And it hits me once again. And I can't believe that it's real. The pain is part of me. And so many times I've pretended that it's velcro on my chest.. that I can remove it when I please. I've pushed it away. I've ignored it. I soaked it up. I've hidden it. I've hidden IN it. I've lived it. And you know.. I'm not sure I know what to do with it. Some days I wish it would go away. But mostly I'm glad for it. I'm glad that it's there to remind me of him. To remind me of what he meant to me. Of what his life taught me. Life is precious. It's beautiful. And ugly. It's simple. It's hard. It's real. There are no answers. The only comfort for the dark hard parts of life are just the sweet soft whispers. The arms around me. The whispers to remember the sweet instead of the bitter. "It's okays" "I love yous" "Don't crys" Fingers and lips soaking up tears. And the promise that I'm never alone. Even when I feel like I am. I miss that boy. I long for him. I dream of him so often. More times nightmares than sweet dreams.. but I'll take what I can get. There is this place in my heart.. A hole in the shape of my angel baby. And oh how I long to kiss those soft lips.. touch that curly red hair.. smell that skin.. hear that giggle. The throbbing comes and then fades.. but it lingers. I love you Jace Richard. Aunt Bethy misses you with all my heart.

Still Singing

It’s been too long since I let my fingers freely tap the letters on the keyboard. My heart gets weary without words.. my mind cloudy. And so much goes on inside me that I can’t make sense of. Eyes full of longing and anger and hope.. all at the same time. I need the deep. I can’t stay here in the shallow waters of this monotonous life. I think of water.. of the ocean or a lake.. and how deep waters make me feel whole. They make me open up. They make me speak. And I wonder if I was meant to be a fish. Or a mermaid. And yet I so love my wings. And I dream of flying away. And my chapter is dull. Work so that I can have money to get caught up on bills, so that I can get back in school, so that I can get my degree, so that I don’t have to continue drowning like this, and so that I can begin again. So many beginnings. And beginnings come with unknown middles and ends. And oh how I love the unknown. I have so much ahead of me, and so much that my dreams are alive with. I close my eyes and wait. And that seems to be my chapter. And there is this boy.. This boy whose words and dusty corners I fell in love with. I didn’t expect to fall so hard for words. I didn’t expect to find myself in these corners so dusty.. ones that no one gets invited into. And this heart that seems so familiar.. yet so new. It’s like it has somehow always been mine. Always been a part of me. And I of it. I ache for more of it. I long for what is ahead. And the joy is so real I swear I could reach out and touch it. This boy whom I spend my days searching with.. seeking, wandering, dreaming. This boy who takes me on a new adventure every day. This boy who reminds me every day of how deeply he loves me. And no matter what. This boy who fights for me without fail. Even when there seems to be no one watching. And yet there is this bitter tinge to every step that we take together.. fingers intertwined and oh how I love the colors. How do I love well? How do I let go of my anger and live free? How do I jump into my new adventure and still love those who disagree? How do I forget all the words? The ones that didn’t sweep me off my feet, but the ones that seemed to knock me to the ground? Because it’s one thing to be fired upon, and another to be warned. It’s hard to grow. It’s hard to become something that everyone is afraid of. It feels lonely. And it feels bitter. And I’m angry that the bitter seems to always steal from my joy. It always has. It steals the sweet and stains it red. And it makes it all look scary. And maybe the trick is to choose to see the sweet rather than the bitter. Why have I let the bitter take over me? Why have I given it so much power? And I must find the truth. I won’t stop until I let it soak into my skin. And I don’t know that it is what I thought it was. I think that maybe this is what life is all about. Searching. Seeking. Never giving up. The kind of love that fights. Even when no one is watching. Even when you don’t get any credit. Even when everyone is telling you to stop fighting.. that you are ridiculous. Because the truth is worth it all. And I have to remember the roots. I have to let the bitter and the anger be what they are.. but I have to not let them control me. Because I am more than that. Because I say that I am. I am brave. And this beautiful life is the only one I have. The only one Papa has given me. And so I will live it full. And sweet. And I will search. Even if there is no end to the searching. And I will bask in Papa’s love for me. And His dedication to me. And mine to Him. And I can’t wait for the next chapter. But I will go deeper into this one. And I will do my best to let go and just love.. love well. Because THAT’S who I am. THAT’S who He made me. And the music ended. But we were still singing.

Oh my wild sunflower

So quiet. So peaceful. And if I listen close enough... there is nothing. Beautiful nothing. No one telling me how it is. No fingers pointing reminding me of what I had said. No one's opinions of who I should be.. who I was raised to be. Who the best version of me is. Oh how hard it is to drown out all the voices. And for so long I was so tired that I became numb once again. I forgot how to breath. I forgot how to smile. I forgot how to care. My Courtsie's little voice yelling "Bethy!" Moving her chair next to mine at dinner. Sitting in my lap to tell me all the things that her little heart can't stop pulsing about. Jaxon's little songs he sings. And the look on his face when he accidently ate a tomato. :) Ivy spitting up in my crotch. :) Her little pink flower. Her big giant blue eyes. Jett's avenger's song... and undies. :) And I forgot. I forgot all the sweet. Because I was so tangled and tethered with the bitter. I was too angry. I forgot about slow dancing in empty dining rooms. I forgot about feet in laps. Breakfast at a little hole in the wall pancake house. Work stories. Serious eyes. Fingers tracing faces. Eyes that tell stories. Fights for cookie dough in chocolate chip cookie dough ice cream. Glimpses of depth and essence. Kisses on cheeks. A new hand hold. Eyes opened to new selves. Letting go of "shoulds" and opening palms to "AMs." Passion. Hope. Walking on daddy's back in the living room floor. All the pillows in the house brought together to make a big pillow pit to jump in. Sister nights. Mom and Bethany day. Breathing easy. And maybe it wasn't forgetfulness. Maybe it was just a bleeding over of my tired shoulders. Carrying all these expectations. Including my own. And I think of my empathy. I think of how I soak up sadness for others. How I listen to their hearts and then spend days and weeks burdening for them. Wishing I could change things for them. And it's who I've always been. Please. Make proud. Don't let yourself think. Because what if what you think doesn't match their's? And so I put myself in a box. A neat little Bethany box. And I've been there ever since. And that's how they've always known me. Boxed Bethany. She's neat and nice, and compliant. She is responsible, on time, hard working, dependable, happy.. even if she isn't really. And all things come at a cost. This time.. it was me. And there are things about my essence that will never change. The fact that I am empathetic. I will never stop battling taking on the burdens of others. It's who I am. I care.. sometimes too much. And there is the me that is always willing to put myself aside to care for someone else. There is this thing in my heart.. something so intense.. that when I love someone and something I can't help but love it all the way. Almost to the point that I throw myself away. And I do it everywhere I go. I always have. A year ago I couldn't tell you my favorite color. Or my favorite activity. Or my favorite food. Or my favorite kind of ice cream. I couldn't tell you what I liked to do in my free time. I couldn't tell you what my own hopes and dreams were. I would have given you something to hold.. because I certainly couldn't disappoint you with no answer. I would have recited my moms favorite color. Or dad's favorite ice cream. Or annie's favorite activity. My hopes and dreams would have matched My Lydsie's life. And I wasn't. I wasn't there. Because I was too afraid to be. I was too afraid to think. Afraid of what.. I'm not sure. Disappointing? Letting someone down? Being different? Standing out? I'm not so sure. But those are things that I now do everyday. And I can tell you that they eat at me. They cause my breathing to become more difficult. Because I've lived my life to please. And it doesn't change my love for those I'm close to. It doesn't make me less me. In fact.. it makes me more me. And every minute has belonged. Every minute of who I was, was needed. And I wouldn't change it. I'm not angry. I'm not sad. If I miss things.. they are familiarity. They are a life like it once was. Like it will never again be. No matter where I choose to go from here. But the question I have to ask myself every day.. and ask Papa.. is "is it worth it?" "Is the cost worth it to me?" And it's scary. It's scary for everyone. But scary for me. Because I've always had this piece of paper with words all over it. A list of steps and rules for getting me to where I want to go in a nice clean way. That was faith. And all of the sudden I'm here with just a blank piece of paper. And the only things I know are that He loves me and that He will never leave me. And I wake up and that's all I have to cling to. The hope and the promise that He is always near. That His love will never change. And I will find the truth, even if it kills me. Not my own truth. But the truth that He has to give me. And I will do it by keeping my eyes and hands open. I wish somedays that I could continue like I used to. Pleasing. Following. It is easier to have a set of rules and steps. But I have stepped out of my nice comfy little box. And now all I have is my real faith. Blind, dark, scary. And that is real faith to me. A faith that is mine and Papa's together. And so again it looks different. I look different. And different is scary. But I'm not sick. I'm being stripped of all the things that made me not me. And Papa and I are on a journey together. And I'm scared. But I won't look back. And it's lonely. And it's dark. And it's hard. But the hard things are the real ones. And oh how I love real things. And I refuse to continue surviving. Because my Jesus died that I might have life. And life to the FULL. And so I will LIVE. And I will live full. And I don't even know what that looks like.. but I will find it. And this is where I have to go. And everyone had their own idea of what my life would look like. They want me to walk, or run, or jog. Because those things feel safe. Those things put people at ease. They look neater. They look nicer. But I want to FLY. And I can. I never knew I could. I always saw from my box. And no one could have prepared me for what I'd see when I stepped out. So many more possibilities. So much more life. So many more choices. And I can choose. Papa and I can choose. And so she gave up her arms for wings. And to those who always knew her with arms.. wings were scary. Sick. Unsafe. And fear brought hurt. And hurt brought confusion and more fear. And it all spiraled into a big fat mess. So messy. So ugly. And yet so beautiful. And what will I pay for a pair of wings? I will pay a pair of arms. Because you can't have wings and arms. Not if you want wings to the full. And I won't settle for anything but the full. I have always been drawn to sunflowers. Ever since I was a little girl. We lived in a little house when I was young that had big huge tall sunflowers lining the fence in the neighbor's backyard. I would jump as high as I could on the trampoline just get a glimpse or two of these glorious flowers. So tall. On our drive to Colorado I can't count how many wild sunflowers we passed.. and it made me remember. The smell of them on my fingers after trying to pick one and failing because of their thick stems. The memory and the lively feeling these beautiful flowers gave me, led me to some research. Did you know that the sunflower turns its face to follow the sun? It's open face symbolizes the sun itself, conveying warmth and happiness, adoration and longevity. It usually grows in scrub land and dry areas. It blooms from july to september. Then head of the sunflower consists of 1,000 to 2,000 individual flowers. Each petal is a ray flower. It is one of the fastest growing plants in the world, increasing in height up to 1 foot a day. It's lofty heights have resulted in the sunflower being symbolic of haughtiness as well as adoration. These last few days with my Papa.. there have been sunflowers everywhere. And He has whispered to me, almost non spot, 'His sunflower.' "Oh my wild sunflower." "How perfect you are." Seen as haughty at times. But adored, warm, happy.. A flower that grows in scrub land and dry areas. Dark. Lonely. But always looking at it's sun. Crazed with the love of light. What a sweet Papa. To compare me to this amazing flower.. that puts butterflies in my tummy.

So am I

I need to write. I can feel the words forming in my fingers. I'm not sure even what it is that I need to say. But I find myself here, my hands on the keyboard. And I can't stop typing. I can hear my own voice in my head.. putting words together to form sentences and its like my fingers can't move fast enough. My mind and my hands and my heart even are on this wave length.. I almost feel left out. I'm here, at this point in my path.. on my journey. A journey that I sometimes hate.. but all at once love so much that I hold it tightly to my chest. I wouldn't give it up. And I wouldn't change a thing. Not any one of the pebbles that bruised the soles of my feet. Or the cracks in the dried soil that made me lose my step. Not the patches of silky green grass that made my tired feet want to sing. Or the cool puddles that rinsed away the grime just long enough for me to remember what it feels like to be shiny clean. Only to begin walking again and dirty them right back up. Sometimes I can soak. Soak it all. Like skin. And other times something happens within me and I numb. But when I numb from sad things.. I numb from all things. Joy. Happiness. Peace. All. And I've been struggling.. fighting myself. "Everything in me is tightening, curling in around this ache. I am fighting to stay open." Open to all the things that Papa has to bring me. All gifts. Even the ones that seem to be horribly awful. Empty walls where pictures hung. Furniture stacked up in the corner. An apple core. A single roll of toilet paper in an empty bathroom. A bed frame with no mattress. One last view of the sunset from my little porch. Memories playing in my mind.. the sound of two little girls spying. Laughing. Promising. A box full of school notes. Pictures drawn. Letters written. Sworn secrets. Endless hours of laughter.. the kind that made you sore the next day. Friendship. Acceptance. Love. Momma's fingers braiding my hair. Daddy's arms around me so long. His kisses soaking up the tears on my cheeks. Courtlynn's super bag, with everything you could ever need. :) Jett's favorite part of the morning. Jaxon's teeth. Ivy's big round eyes. Bay's forgiveness. My Lydise's voice fighting for me. Babe's eyes drinking me in. My fingers intertwined in his and oh how I love the colors. A picture of two birds flying away together. An invitation to just be me and that I'm wanted that way. Bubba's courage and unwillingness to give anything but his all. Rocky's sweet softness and the way I can feel his love for me in the air... almost breath it. Nightmares. Ones that wake me with loud sobs. And the ache of that long hallway walk. The turn of the doorknob. Jace's pale, cold face. And waking up to realize it's a dream. But not really. It's a memory. It's reality. One last kiss on his dry, cold lips. One last run of my fingers through is bright red curls.. that somehow just didn't feel the same. A last peek at his toes. A last attempt at holding his hand in mine. And I'm angry. And I don't want to be skin today. I don't want to soak. Not this. But I realize that this is life. And when you live free and open, you risk a whole lot. And you get things that you wouldn't have picked. You find yourself on parts of the path that make you want to sit down and never take another step. But you can't. Not if you want the fullness. Not if you want the sweet things. The ones we were made for. But the sweetness just doesn't come without the bitter. And so you choose to let the bitter soak too. Pool around you. And the tears come. So long. Your eyes are swollen shut. Your head is pounding and you feel like you could sleep for days. "Bring the wind and bring the thunder. Bring the rain til I am tried. When it's over bring me stillness. Let my face reflect the sky. And all the grace and all the wonder of a peace that I can't fake." Maybe the tears are purely a trickle of memories.. ones that you have to somehow let go of, so that they can just be what they are. Maybe tears are the softest and sweetest way we can let heart ache the way it needs to. And I hate them. But I need them. And so life is mean. But it's also sweet and full. And you can't have one without the other. They come together. They are tethered. Like my braided hair. And so I will soak. Even the brutal ugliness of the world. Because the sweetness is worth it. And so am I.

Skin

What is time wasted? Who defines the word wasted? And who names time? The other day I was sitting in the sun, and as I felt the rays burning my skin I thought about how I want to soak up life, like my skin soaks up the sun. But how? How do I find it inside myself to look past all the different definitions of wasted? Definitions of time? For skin to soak sun is so easy. It happens on its own. It’s made that way. Skin was made to soak. Could I be made to soak? Can I be skin? So much of life is different than I expected. And much of my life is different than I planned. Each choice that I have made has brought me to here. Today. I know I’m not too far along the road.. only 21. But I feel the pressure of time. I feel the expectations of others. Of myself. And its like there are two of me. There is the me that just wants to please. Cross my legs, fold my hands, brush my hair, follow the rules, make them proud. All of them. She is responsibility. She is on time. She is hard-working. She is respectful. She is clean and neat. She is tired. And then there is the me that aches to run, to fly, to let my hair blow-dry in the breeze, to unfold my hands and let them make beautiful things, to open my mouth and speak, to stand tall and make myself proud. Myself and my Papa. She is raw. She is passionate. She is real. She is determined. She is free. She is skin. When I think of her I get butterflies in my tummy, like I do sometimes when I’m lacing up my tennis shoes before a run. Like Merida in the movie Brave. I love her. I need her. When I embrace her I feel more me. And I think there are things about the other me that I need as well. I can’t throw her away. She is part of me too, and so I learn to love her. I haven’t figured it all out. Though the mystery is almost addicting. I want to solve it. But I know that if I could, then there would be nothing left to strive for. How sweet it’s been to begin to let heart be who she is. And every day I’m closer to my true self. Still so far.. but closer than I once was. And as I look back I can’t find it in myself to call any of my choices mistakes. Wrong and right? Yes. That is a completely different story. One that, frankly, I’m not equipped to discuss quite yet. My thoughts are too confused and scattered for that. But every place I’ve been, whether good or bad, has been a place that Papa was always willing to go with me. He’s never left me. Even in my so-called wandering. I love that pinterest that says “Not all those who wander are lost.” In my silly human way, I find the ache to know things. To know them, not just as rules and regulations. Not just as a formula for the best outcome of life, but to know them for real. To let heart know them for herself. To risk. To live, rather than just survive. To venture close enough to the water’s edge that I risk getting my shoes wet. There are choices I’ve made that I wouldn’t want to go around bragging about, but I can’t name them. I can’t bring myself to name bad or good. They just are. And they’ve been what has made me myself. Every step has been needed. Every action taken, every hand held, every eye opened, every heart broken, every tear, every apology, every I love you, every drop of joy, every wound, every chance taken has made me closer to skin than I was before. And so my story looks different than expected. But expected by who? By me? By them? Certainly Papa is not surprised. He knew every line of this picture from the blank sheet of paper. And though sometimes the pencil’s stroke may be rougher, it is equally part of the beauty in the ends masterpiece. I don’t know everything. In fact I know very little. But that’s what keeps me coming back for more. Its where the burn in my chest comes from when I take a look at the track in front of me before I take the first stride. I think that’s the skin.. soaking. And all I want in this life is.. all of it. Every minute. Soaking. Even the "wasted" ones. Because I've come to realize that sometimes the wasted ones are my favorite ones. A sunday evening riding my bike to the park to sit in my favorite swing. I say.. no time is wasted time when you're skin soaking. I want the wonder. I want fullness. I want marvelous. "I am so thirsty for the marvelous that only the marvelous has power over me. Anything i cannot transform into something marvelous, I let go. Reality doesn't impress me. I only believe in intoxication, in ecstasy, and when ordinary life shackles me, I escape one way or another. No more walls." -Anais Nan I forget too easily. I forget the living. I forget the wonder. I forget the wholeness. When I get so caught up in money and plans and my own sight for whats ahead I find myself empty. And when I let Papa fill me.. all the things I ached for so much seem so insignificant in this feeling of fullness. In this place of true joy. Can I stay here forever? Can I always be skin? Could I ride my bike til my legs are noodles? And sit in my swing until my butt is numb? :) I ache for the moments like these. I ache for them always. I am determined to soak. I am determined to name my own time. And to name my own moments. Choices. Name them for what they are to me. To heart and I and Papa. And the trick, I think, is letting go of expectations.. of others and of myself. And letting go of fear.. fear of disappointing. Because there will always be someone that disagrees. There will always be someone that is disappointed. So I'll continue on my track.. watching my feet take on the road ahead of me... not sure what will be around the next corner. And wanting so badly to know.. yet addicted to the mystery. This is how I want to live. I want to be skin. Always soaking. Soaking in the joy. Soaking in the sadness. Open hands to receive what might be brought to me. Even the things that are hard to hold. I am reminded of a little boy that used to be mine. A baby angel boy that I used to bathe, lotion, change diapers, dress, feed, play.. sing to. I can see him in his hospital bed all swollen. And I remember the ache inside me.. not knowing how to hold this new sadness. Not sure what it meant, or what to do with it. It was close to christmas time and I'd sing him "hear the angels sing.." Today, he does. And I don't doubt that he did, even then. I still dream. I still dream that dream where I walk down that hallway and find him drained. And some days I don't want to soak. Not this. And I'm angry. And I want to scream. And I wish I could make someone understand. The haunting. The hole. The black darkness that's always there under my skin, waiting to surprise me and slither out with no warning. As time goes on, you don't miss him less. You don't hurt any less. You just learn to live with the pain. You learn to let it be a part of you. Because it is. You hate it. But you need it. So you soak it in too. What choice do you have? Because when you risk living as skin.. you get to soak all. Not just the happy.. but all. And somehow, its worth it. I think it makes life sweeter. It makes colors deeper. It makes skin softer. Freedom. I want to be free. But are you willing to pay the price for your freedom?

A Patchy Heart

I'm not sure really where to begin. Sometimes I just know I need to write. I can feel it inside.. things my heart needs to say. Things I don't even know are in there. I've been thinking about myself.. as a little girl. I can remember being really young and going to church with my family on sundays. I remember everyone smiling.. you know how church people are. All smiling, all happy, nothing wrong. Not a care. And I remember hating it. Literally being beside myself, wanting to hide.. which I often did, behind my mothers leg.:) I hated it because I knew it couldn't be real. There's no way. It had to be fake.. I could feel it. And as I grew older I began to see. When I was 9 my older sister's best friend passed away in a car accident. I remember being in the kitchen, and I can see her answering the phone and collapsing on the ground as her heart was forced to accept a new reality. I remember hearing her weeping. Breaking things. Serene had taught me to play "I dropped my dolly in the dirt" on the piano. She'd sat there with me for hours. She'd eaten dinner with our family. She'd been a part of our lives. My life. My lydsie's life... she'd been a part of her heart. Just a year later my older brother's best friend passed away at just 14 years old. I remember the last time I'd seen him. Dad had been in a good mood and bought us an above-ground pool for the summer.. you know, those cheapish ones? Levi had come over and we'd gone swimming. I have this picture in my mind of him goofing off in the pool, lips purple, laughing that laugh he always did. The one that made you want to kiss his cheeks. Then we'd gone inside and played video games. When he died, I don't remember much about it. Just that something inside my brother had changed. His heart had somehow... cracked. I remember a dinner sometime that week, and I remember his silence. When I was 16 I found my Jace. I have nightmares about that evening.. ones that wake me, and i find myself shaking and weeping. I remember that long walk down the hallway to the room where he slept. And how I'd walked it so carelessly. So.. oblivious to reality. Sometimes I wish I was still there. There are days that I ache to walk that walk forever. The one where I never have to know about all the break and cracks that make for a patched-up heart. I had found him and been forced to be the one to deliver the news to my sister. And again.. her weeping. Screaming. Breaking things. Pleading. And I stood by, silent tears, as I so often have in life. Even in my own. When I was 17 he went away forever. I remember sitting in the emergency room. I remember dad coming out, shaking his head and saying "he's gone." I remember the release. The disappointment. The letdown. The hopelessness. And finally I knew it too. The crack.. though seeing those I loved have their hearts cracked, made small marks on my own, this was different.. much different. My heart was now having to accept a new reality. Having to let go of something that I never wanted to give up. A little boy. The hope for a little boy who would grow to call me by name. Take his first steps. Ride his first bike. Play in his first football game. Go on his first date. Be my first date. And it goes beyond the heartache. Beyond the suffocating loss of expectations.. dreams.. wishes. I can remember the expectations I had for myself.. even in the midst of all this sludge. Expectations for my future. To be who everyone wanted me to be. To date only one person. The one I ended up marrying. To kiss only one man in my lifetime. To be pure. In all the ways I was "supposed to." I remember youth camps, girls groups, books on relationships and purity. And the message was always the same. Save yourself. Because it's wrong not to. It's better if you save yourself. Your marriage in your future will be better if you save yourself. God will bless you if you save yourself. I remember this analogy.. (and really this is what I thought I was going to write about.. ha.) I heard it so much as a young teenager that I almost grew to secretly hate it.. never being brave enough to admit to myself that I just might disagree with it. People would tell me that it was like I had a paper heart. And when I chose to date someone and give myself to them (however I did that) was me tearing off a little piece of my heart and giving it to them. And in the analogy the girl dates all these guys and gives away so much of her heart that when she finally finds the man she was made to spend her life with.. she has next to nothing to give to him. Nothing but a small broken chunk. It was like this picture was painted.. almost as a threat. If you do it wrong, you'll suffer. Your relationship with the man you were made for won't be as good. He'll be disappointed in you. He'll be disappointed that all he gets is a little ripped up piece of paper. How could you? How could you make such a mistake? How could you come to church with anything but a big, fat, fake smile on your face? How could you be so real? So raw? And the truth is.. as I've walked down that hallway.. the one where I was blind to all the reality. All the ache and the searing longing. I've grown. And Papa has just begun to open my eyes to see it. The truth is.. who says? Who says that the patched-up hearts are any less lovely and wanted than the perfect shiny ones? I think there is something captivating about a heart that has been through the damn ringer. The one that has suffered through the hard things. Because the hard things are the real ones. And with every memory I have that comes with haunting nightmares of sisters screaming and babies drained of life, I have a special crack in my heart. I have a crack for everything I've ever had to give away.. that I didn't wholeheartedly want to give. Everything that ends up in a different way than I had expected. Things, people that I gave myself to. Choices. Maybe wrong. But maybe just choices. Maybe there isn't really one specific way that is the absolute right one.. maybe you just have to pick one and be all in. And who's right is it anyway to point fingers and shame you for the choices you've made. Their your own. Why have I been so afraid of disappointing? No one gets to be disappointed in me. And my future marriage will be just as blessed as anyone else's. Not because I made the right choices or the wrong ones. But because I have a Papa that loves me so much I can't stand it. There is nothing I can do to separate myself from Him. And all He wants is to dine with me and let me eat and drink of Him.. let Him satisfy my thirst. He wants my heart. Patches and all.

I'm sad today. And most days I can rise above it and thank Papa for the blessings. I can find the happy things and I can be thankful. Eucharisteo. But eucharisteo is hard. And sometimes I'm not good at it at all. I don't know why it feels like this sometimes. Like it happened yesterday. Like I'm having to accept the reality all over again. And the memories won't stop and it makes me so sad. The pain creeps in.. and it's so dark and so crippling. I had been doing so good pretending.. that I almost forgot it was there. But it never leaves, not really. It's always just under the surface. The sound of his little nickname on my lips is like a stab in the hole in my chest. My wound is achy and swollen.. and I'm not sure why. I always know it's there. It's become a part of me. A part that sometimes I resent.. but yet I wouldn't give it for the world. I need it. I miss the freshness of his sweet memories.. and I hate the lurking of the dark ones. So vivid. So clear. I loathe them.. but I need them too. Some days I just need to think on them.. allow their bitterness to pool around me. Some days when they begin flooding in, small pieces of the sweet ones begin to trickle their way through too. His wheezy chest that night the three of us took turns holding him in the recliner. Being so beyond exhaustion but wanting to dance at the sound of his heart beating so soft. The way cries had become music. The smell of his baby food mixed with cereal. His big round blue eyes.. so deep. His soft red curls and the way they felt in my fingers. How I loved the pink in his chubby cheeks. And it burns to remember his little face drained of life.. pale and cold. Thats how it works. The dark memories always stealing from the sweet ones. And how do I dwell on the good when the bad was so terrible..? And it lingers. It's always there. The hole. The never ending ache for a little boy who was supposed to call me Aunt Bethy. The one who was supposed to be a big brother to two precious little boys and a little brother to the sweetest girl I know. The one who I was supposed to take on dates and listen to his silly stories about things that happened that day and what he wanted to be when he grew up. So much pain. Aching pain. It throbs. It gnaws. It plants bitterness and anger. And sometimes I'm blinded by it's disgusting harshness. And I can't find the good. I can't make myself thank Papa.. not for this. I don't know why. I don't know why I can't scoop all four of my little angels up. I don't know why he will always be missing. I don't know why I sit wondering what he would look like if he were mine today. What would his little voice sound like? What kinds of silly things would he say? What I wouldn't give to hear his tiny giggle.. to touch his hair.. to kiss his cheeks. I long to hold him tight in my arms. Because if I could trace his face, hold his hands and count his toes.. then I could know he is real again. That he's not just a fuzzy memory in my head. I wish I could remember right. I wish the memories could be stored somewhere safe where they'd never fade. It's like bloody knuckles. Scraped-up hands and knees. I don't know how to get back up, always. I don't know if I know how to walk around all beat up. But here I am.. and days like these pass by. And the pain doesn't lessen. It just gets more bearable. You just get better at living with it. And I think that sometimes it's okay to have days that you're not so good at eucharisteo thanksgiving. I think Papa understands. And I know He's good. I know He loves me. I know it's okay. It's just that so much of life hurts..