I manage

I never thought I'd see the day that I'd go nearly 2 months without blogging. I just knew I wouldn't be one of those bloggers who just doesn't update their blog and it drifts off into cyber space forever.

I have a lot to say. I have tons to post. Birthdays have been celebrated, kids are growing like summer weeds, I've started a small photography business and it's a nice, deliberate distraction from the every day.

But honestly, when I sit to write, none of that pours from me. I lay in bed at night and think about the abundance of blog worthy material and somehow, I never make it to the computer in time to document any of it. I've had moments of clarity where I thought I'd figured out really trusting the Lord. Then moments of such anger and frustration that I've vowed to share them because surely, someone else has felt the same.

In general, life is okay. Somedays, it's even good. I've had more days of energy and patience than days feeling like I'll puke at any moment and being done with my children by 8:15am. I get the joy of feeling sweet baby flutters deep within me that remind me daily that God's grace abounds even when mine is all dried up. We've moved into our new house and we are settled, even though boxes still line the halls and pile in corners of every room.

People keep saying, "Does it feel like home?" or, "Oh! It's just perfect. It feels so homey."

I'm glad they feel that way. I want our home to be warm and inviting, a place people feel comfortable.

I just wish I felt the same way.

For the last 3.5 years we've been in a rental house that we knew, from the day we moved in, would be temporary. We didn't know where we'd be going or how long we'd be staying. But we knew God led us to that season of our lives for a purpose, to prepare us and lead us to wherever He wanted us to be. We were ready. We were eager. While we waited on directions, and began stepping out in faith, we welcomed two more daughters to our family, still set on going somewhere.

And then, July 24th happened.

And now, I sit here unpacking boxes that have been sitting packed, in our attic, for nearly 4 years. Boxes that I never intended to unpack anytime soon. Photos that bring me joy and sorrow all in the same breath.

Chubby photos of my Lucas when he was just a roly-poly little baby and Ashlee with her huge eyes and kissable lips. Photos of Elizabeth with baby front teeth and chubby, little fingers. Prints of Aaron's huge, blue eyes and Olivia's round, bald head. I take them out, look at them, smile at the nostalgia.

Then I box them right back up.

I don't really know how to explain it. I want them out. I want to see them. I want our house to be our home. I want our kids to see photos of themselves as babies and toddlers and take pride in knowing that we have treasured them their entire life.

But I just can't. Not yet. I've asked a few people to come and help me hang photos and things on the walls. But plans fall through, or kids get in bed too late and I don't push the issue because I know that when the time comes, I'm probably going to fall apart. And how do you explain that to people?

"Well, you see, I'm sobbing because I thought our life plan was to be in Africa right about now. We weren't going to be unpacking photos of our babies, instead, we'd be taping a few treasured photos onto our fridge and calling it a day."

This isn't the life I had us pictured living. And it's hard to convey that to people when, from all outside appearances, it looks like we've moved on with our life. And while we have moved, I haven't necessarily moved on. Does that make sense?

Our pastor, his daughter and a team went to Uganda earlier this month. Honestly, I've not kept up with anything to do with missions because, well, I can't. But I was actually excited for them and for this young girl to set her feet on African soil for the second time in her young life.

But then, the Sunday after they returned, they showed a video summarizing their trip. Their 2 week experience in Uganda was nothing like what our day-to-day life would have been like in Kenya. NOTHING. And yet, Luke nor I could keep it together. We both just sat and sobbed silently in our seats. Both of us shedding tears faster than we could wipe them. I resisted the urge to flee the service, hide and weep openly. I didn't want to be that girl.

I'm not pretending to know the depth and breadth of the pain that a woman who is infertile, yet longs for children, endures. I have no doubt that is a pain unlike any other pain. Yet, when missions and Africa and blog links to awesome ministry blogs are sent to me, I recoil in pain. I recoil and fight the urge to run and hide. I fight the urge to look at them in disbelief and whisper through the pain, "This is more than I can take."

I miss a land, a people, a village, a house I never knew. We never visited Kenya. We never even knew the names of all of our team members. But the grief of losing what we never had must be some sort of a hint of what barren women long for, and grieve themselves.

I want Africa. And yet, it seems not oceans away, but galaxies. An impossibility to access. Something I will live the rest of my days longing for but never attain.

And yet, I know that now is not the time for us to go. I know that because of so many factors and reasons and the state of my own heart. So while things appear okay on the surface, while I go through the motions, try to love my children and my husband with everything I have left in me, I manage.

I manage to make it feel like normal life. I manage to not allow myself to dwell on the fact that I'm angry, I'm hurt and I'm not settled. I manage to make our children's rooms feel like home. I step back, regroup and move on with the next thing. Because most days, that's about all I can manage.

It's been 10 months since your funeral. 10 months and 6 days since we texted late into the night and made plans for you to come over for dinner the next day. So much has changed in the last 10 months and I've fought most of those changes on the battlefield of my heart.

We aren't in Africa. That's grief we still deal with every day, too. The Daraja choir came last week and I hid my face behind Ella's head when they showed the video of the children's village in Uganda, as tears slipped down my cheeks. I ache to be there. I know you'd understand that.

We are moving. Not anywhere far, just across the train tracks to the other side of main street. It's a bigger house with 5 bedrooms. It reminds me a lot of our old house. I can almost see us sitting in our new basement, your stinky shoes on the floor, a huge bag of peanut M&Ms between us while we discuss your Junior year of college. I miss those days more than anyone could know.

I'm pregnant. Baby #8 is due on December 28th. That's our 11th anniversary and your Mom's birthday. Which means, you'd have finally been home from school for the birth of one of our kids! You'd have loved that since you'd missed the last 2. I know you'd want to be at the hospital right away but then you'd turn red and feel awkward as you thought about what I'd just done with my body. Birth always half intrigued, half grossed you out. I'm sad that this will be our first baby to have never met you.

Lucas and Ashlee turn 7 tomorrow. Then, a week later, Aaron will be 5. Those are the last, first birthdays without you here. We are doing a double sleep over again. This year you won't be here to help me do pedicures with a house full of squealing, indecisive little girls. I'm waiting on Lucas to realize it's his first birthday without you. He still cries often because he misses you. I know that would break your heart.

I signed our older 3 up for Summer with the Arts last night. Bile rose in the back of my throat and dread immediately consumed me. They all want to go again this year. And I want them to go. But I'm already dreading the end of July so much, I can't imagine how hard that week will be for all of us. I don't know how they'll do without you bouncing into each room to check on them.

A few weeks ago I saw a dark headed girl with a backpack on going into the old college trailer at church. In truth, she probably didn't look a whole lot like you, except the brown hair and backpack. But it rattled me.

Abigail is nearly walking and she's realized she's funny. You always enjoyed our kids so much at this age. I can picture you walking in, stepping on the squeaky part of the floor in our kitchen, offering to shake my hand (like I ever let you not hug me), scooping her up and making her giggle. She's such a fun baby.

Grace and I are getting really good at Olivia's hair. Like, I'm getting compliments from strangers, good. It makes me proud. By now, you and Olivia would have made up a dance about shaking her beans. And she'd sing it obnoxiously for days after you'd come over. It would annoy me. Now, I'd do just about anything for that.

We miss you so much. Some days, your absence hits us all over again, almost like it's fresh. Other days, we think about the funny things you've said or done and we laugh, then we all get quiet and wish like hell you were still here.

I love you. I miss you. I wish you were here.