I’ve been thinking about ebb and flow. The ebb and flow of life. The highs and lows,
ups and downs. I’m trying really hard to question myself and expand my own
thoughts on things. I don’t want to adopt a new set of
rules and beliefs and yet again miss myself completely. I would much rather
look to someone else to tell me how to feel than to feel something for myself.
Why are sadnesses so easy for me to feel right now, but happy is so hard? When
I think of Jace and his lifeless body, I can feel all for myself. Anger,
brokenness, lack of breath in my own lungs to match his. And my spiritual body
has done much like what his physical body did, over the past six years. I’ve
lost the pink in my lips and the olive in my skin. My toes have gone blue and
my heart has come to a stop. I was good at pretending there for a while. I was
a good at the echo of “God is still goods,” and “I know he’s in a better
places.” But I couldn’t keep the bullshit up for too long. Little did I know my
body was dying, and with it my ability to see hope in the corners of life and feel
joy the way it should truly be felt.
As I read Mandy’s words in her book "Thrashing About with God" and the way she
has come through to the other side and learned to deal with life’s bitter and
sweet and take things as they come, I’m jealous. I myself have made a habit of
cursing the ebb and flow. And I feel more ebb these days than flow. In fact,
I’m not sure if I believe there is any flow left for me.
I think of little
girls who have lost their mommys, and the way they chase butterflies still with
giggles in their bellies. I envy them. They don’t know. The ebb is everywhere
in their lives but they don’t see it. They see the happy and they feel the joy,
despite the rotten scoop on their plate. They eat what they’re given with
thankful hearts, all the while keeping a sharp eye on those silly, beautiful
butterflies. How do they do it? And how can I cover them with my protective
bubble so they’ll never have to know about this yucky life? So they’ll never
lose sight of the butterflies? I watch old men die in their beds. Ones that I
took care of every day for the past 6 months. And I wonder if they feel like
they had their life to the full. I wonder if they feel like this is fair. I
wonder if all they’ve lived through was worth it to them, and if this pain they
feel at the end doesn’t make them want to rear back and throw a right hook at
whatever or whoever is waiting for them at the other side of all this. I wonder
if anything is worth it. This silence in my home. And days
off of work spent crying and stressing over money. This life of bliss that
little Bethany dreamed of.. well this can’t be it.
I think of the woman with
four children whose husband tried to commit suicide. And I wonder if she thinks
it’s worth it. Does she see the butterflies, still? Is there anyone to stand by
her side and scream for justice? Or the little Cambodian girl who lives in the
AIDS orphanage. The one who is confined to a bed in 100 degree weather, because
she can’t control her body anymore and her family cannot afford to take care of
her. I see myself there by her side, shooing the flies from her face and asking
God, why? Are there butterflies there? Are there butterflies down that dark
hallway to the room where I would find a breathless baby boy? And what about
that Bethany? The one who stood in the dark with her hand on his back for so
long because she knew that it couldn’t be real. The one who picked up a trash
sac full of guilt and shame and so very much more that night and has never put
it down. I promise you, she has lost
sight of the butterflies. In fact I don’t know if she even believes in
butterflies anymore. Talk of them makes her roll her eyes. “You might as well
be chasing fairies,” she laughs sarcastically.
But you know, I think maybe
there is still hope for even her. A new nickname from a little girl with blonde
hair and blue eyes and braces on her feet just may have been a few drops in the
cracks of her dried up heart. Drops of what exactly? I don’t know, but I don’t
believe she cares. She heals little by little, day by day. Text messages that
remind her that she is someone’s sunshine. Drip. Little hands on her face that
come with tiny sounding “I love yous.” Drop. Arms that hold her at the end of
the day, even after she has been mean and grumpy. Drip. Drop.
I think she could learn to see the hope again. I don’t know that she believed she could. But maybe.. just the idea that she could is that little bit of hope itself.
