20 October 2007

Trust. Small word. Big idea. Jenny posted this tonight on their family page and the look on Noah's face grabbed hold of my heart. I know he's looking at his mommy. I know how dearly this child loves that woman. And I know how much he depends on her. For many months she was his food source, his pacifier, his hiding place. He knows nothing more than to feel safe with her and to trust her totally and completely.
It's difficult for me to remember trusting anyone this much. As we age, we grow cynical and trusting others doesn't come as easily as the hurts of life begin to accumulate. I love my daughters and I adore my husband. And I trust them. But not as much as the look in this little man's eyes as he gazes at his mother. Which makes me somewhat sad. We lose so much as we age.
There is one that I can trust and always feel safe. Within my heavenly Father's hands I know everything will be alright. That whatever I need and whatever happens will happen only within His realm and I can rest knowing that He is always there, always loving, always safe.
Hold on to this look, dear Noah, for as long as you can. And as you age, know that you can always trust your mother and father. And you can trust me, sweet child. I'll be here, forever and a day~

10 October 2007


Imagine if you will, an utterly beautiful day. An April morning. It's Friday and you have the day off! You are filled with such peace and happiness you almost can't stand it. A day of laughter. And love. You're strong, you're in control, you're invicible. You're safe.

Now, during this beautiful day, it's time for a nap! You're comfortable, relaxed. 'Just lie here for 30 minutes'. Easy. You drift away.

Dreams come and go, haunting, scary. Your fears wrapped up in everything that's ever made you uncomfortable. They're so real. So real and so frightening. Finally, finally, you wake and there's your best friend, your lover, your rock. And you begin to relax. Wow, what a dream, you say. And you notice, you're not lying where you were, but that's okay. It's not really a problem. Yet.

Tubes, wires, bandages, something attached to your throat that prevents you from talking, breathing. Panic begins to rise, and fear clogs your throat. Swiftly your brain races to find some logic to connect the pieces of this horrible puzzle that's becoming your reality.

Throwing back the covers, you find temporary relief that your legs look normal. While getting out of bed, someone has to catch you as you slide to the floor. Who do those legs belong to? Not you! You just tried to walk. And couldn't.

You ask, 'what's happened?' 'What day is it?' And you feel his anguish before you see his tears. You hear, but you don't comprehend. 'That's, what? 77 days?' He doesn't need to nod because you feel it inside with a sinking, sinking feeling. Something is wrong. Something is horribly, horribly wrong. Seventy-seven days? Of your life? When? How? What happened? And this is only the beginning.

03 October 2007

Does our heart not melt at the sight of a sleeping child? Do we not remember with clarity the smell of their freshness, the soft whisper of their breathing, and the way they fold into us when we reach for them?

Jenny posted this picture of Ian, asleep after a morning of playing at the park. It touched me, as I recalled his mother in much this same repose. "Ah, time doth stop for no man." Sleep well, sweet prince.