Un-Reality

I do not live in a reality anymore. That's what life feels like. It's like I am in a dream-like state floating slowly, but out of control, through the days. The fog ahead of me is so thick I cannot even make out the outline of what lies ahead. Nothing seems real, yet life has never felt more real. I can only describe what is, as my un-reality.

How did I get here? I never imagined living in California. In fact, I told the Lord when I was in college that I was willing to go anywhere in the world to serve him except the Northeastern U.S. and California. Naturally those are the exact two places he led me. I have to confess that I LOVE California. The West Coast is a completely different culture from the East and it is the only place, besides Blacksburg, VA that has ever felt like home.

Maybe it feels like home because I am here with Joe. The man God had for me is nothing like the husband I imagined. And I am so thankful. Because the man God blessed me with is so much better than anything I thought I wanted.

And maybe it feels like home because God has called us here and so we belong here for that reason. God called us here and so even though I cannot see through the fog, I have an overwhelming peace.

I never imagined that in order to serve in ministry alongside my husband, I would have to develop partners to raise support instead of being in a place where we are given a salary and benefits. It is all so un-real but I cannot imagine being anywhere else or doing anything else.

In all of this, I am finding it hard to stop being busy. Yesterday, I was reading with Sophie Grace. We were reading one of her Bible story books. Her favorite stories are Samson, the giant (David & Goliath), and Jesus. We read Samson and we read David and Goliath and as I turned the pages to the New Testament stories to read one about Jesus, she said, "Marta" as I passed the story about Jesus visiting Mary and Martha. So I stopped and read.

Martha's tongue is sticking out as she furiously works and sweat pours off of her forehead as she fumes over the fact that Mary is not helping her. The little story makes her sound so whiny. And then on the last page the cartoon Jesus looks so kind with his arm around her telling her that Mary has chosen what is better, "She is listening to me."

I was struck by this. I am busy running around trying to get stuff done never taking the time to sit at the feet of Jesus and listen to him. It is like I can see him sitting quietly in the room as I rush around and glance to the side. It is awkward that he is just sitting there waiting when clearly I have things to do and in fact have already started doing them. Maybe if I went and sat with him life would feel real again.

I work so hard to make it all okay. When we are out and people come over to comment on our brand new little baby, I find myself telling strangers about my special baby. I just find myself responding to their comment that he is so small with, "He has a chromosonal disorder and that is why is small." Typically this is followed by an awkward silence and a questioning look as they search for something appropriate to say and walk away.

Why do I feel the need to say that to strangers? It really is uncontrollable and I think it will go away. I think it is a way I am making this un-reality a little more real. I am refusing denial. Denial has to be the must frustrating part of grief. Why try to make a situation something it is not by pretending it doesn't exist? So anytime I feel like I can reasonably say it, I casually slide into a conversation that my baby has a disorder. Telling people about it keeps it real.

I do not know when my un-reality will feel more like reality. I am ready to feel more stable. I want to feel solid ground beneath my feet. I want to see the clear blue sky with the distinct shape of the city's skyline ahead of me.

I need to sit with my Savior so it isn't all so awkward anymore.

Release

As I sit here, in the library, finishing up some school work I am trying desperately to overcome the urge to let myself fall into my emotions and cry, and slowly losing that fight.

As I finished one assignment earlier this week I did succomb to that overwhelming need. I had not cried like that since I got the phone call from the geneticist telling us that Liam had a chromosome disorder. I am not really sure why I started crying. I think maybe I was releasing all my pent up stress about school and Liam.

Considering all that we have going on in our lives (our special boy, adjusting to 2 kids, me finishing school, developing partners and raising support for our ministry in SF, Joe working 2 jobs) Joe and I have remained very composed throughout the last 7 weeks. I think it is just time to let it out.

When I see pregnant women or my friends with their "normal" babies I feel so sad. I am happy for them but their normal experience brings tears to my eyes.

I am so in love with my baby boy. He started smiling this past week and he saves most of them for his momma =) I would not give him up for anything but dealing with this is hard. Joe and I have wanted nothing more than for everything to be normal and ok. We really are ok but we are learning that we do not have to make our situation normal. This is not normal. Most people do not experience what we are experiencing. Most of our friends are having normal, healthy babies and they will never know what it is like to walk the path we will walk. They will never experience the pain of realizing that their child will never have a fair shot at a college education, a godly marriage, and a family of his own. They will not have to face the stares and whispered comments of others noticing that something is wrong with that one. They will raise their normal, healthy children to grow up to be independent and capable adults.

But what I have to believe, is that we have a blessing that most of our friends will never experience. This little boy, created in the image of God, but with some extra special needs gets to be ours. We get to encourage him and celebrate him as he learns and accomplishes what he is capable of. He may not walk until he is 2 or 3 years old but when he does we will celebrate. He may not talk well but we will learn to understand him and equip him so that he is able to communicate. He may have limitations but we will celebrate his abilities. And even as I mourn what will never be, I will celebrate what has been given.

"yet I will rejoice in the Lord; I will take joy in the God of my salvation. God, the Lord, is my strength; he makes my feet like the deer's; he makes me tread on my high places." ~Habakkuk 3:18-19