If only

I know we're not supposed to count the "if onlys" in life.  I know we're supposed to live in the here, the now, the present of what God has granted today.  That doesn't seem to stop our fragile human hearts from exploring the dead end road some days.

Our garden is going; not strong, but it's there.  And, we spent a few hours out tonight with a rake in the hands of our son, who is about half the size of the rake.  A hoe in the determined six-year olds arms of our daughter, struggling to help.  The sound of the lawnmower in the distance as our oldest took care of that weekly chore.  And, our third daughter, Syvannah, asked an interesting question, in the way that only a child that age can do:  "What if we were weeds, mom?"

I could have gone so many directions with that.  But, instead I put it right back at her.  And her answer was that we're not weeds; we're special.  I told her I wouldn't want to be pulled, but she was more focused on how special each of us is in this family.  So, she proceeded to list each person by name, "you're special, mommy, and I'm special, and Lexy is special, and daddy is special . . ."

If only her father could have watched and heard those words.  It's not the same to share them on the phone or an e-mail.  Though they might be appreciated, what was caught in the tone was the tender developing of a beautiful heart.  This girl feels so deeply.  Everything.  And, in the dusk, she passed along her touch to a stranger walking by; a woman we couldn't see too clearly in the fading light of daytime.  She called out "hi" to this woman, and then said in the same, loud tone of voice to be heard, "I don't know who you are, but you're very pretty."

If only I could convey the enthusiasm she had in her voice sharing with a total stranger that she was pretty.  Instead, it's relegated to words on a page for now, but a memory nonetheless to share with daddy on the next call.

If only I could share it in person tonight, in the slow murmurings that happen just before sleep.  Those last minute, "did I tell you . . ." sleepy revelations.  Now it's almost like I am trying to fill a pail with all the things he needs to know, would want to see.  Verbal pictures painted with the stories in words instead of action.

One month down.  Roughly 8 more to go or so.  218 days . . .

Counting Fears

Sometimes the absolute power of my fears overwhelms me.  What if I forget one of the kids' practices?  What will happen when my son doesn't have the t-ball glove for the correct hand?  Will I ruin him for baseball for life?  What about my oldest daughter and her development?  I worry so much that I'm not listening to her enough, understanding enough, helping enough?  Do all of these four beautiful children know how much they are truly loved by me?  By God?  What do I do when they all get sick and I'm by myself?  What if I manage to completely mess them all up in the time my husband is gone?

I am crushed by the enormity of the task before me, and I have to remind myself that I am not alone.  Thousands of single parents do this every day.  Hundreds of thousands.  Some are single by choice, and some have had the choice made for them.  I am fortunate to know that it's a temporary state of being.  He will return home. 

But in the meantime, I have months ahead of me.  Months to address each and every fear; each and every hurdle.  Matthew West's new song, "Strong Enough" has struck a resonant chord in me lately.  My head knows God will provide the appropriate strength for the appropriate times.  But, it's the line about "when I hit rock bottom, I start looking up."  That's what gets me.  Do I have to hit rock bottom first to know what God's strength really means? 

There are blessings to match the fears.  As sad as I am to admit this, I rely on my husband to take away all the scary things in my life.  To reassure me that I am safe, protected, and someone's got my back.  But his absence means that God has a chance to be present in a way I have not allowed Him to be before.  It's a tentative thing, to reach out and trust someone who--in words--I have trusted all my life.  To put to the test the relationship that brings meaning to my life.  I'm not worried about God holding up His end; I'm worried about meeting my end. 

So maybe that's truly what these are about.  These fears.  Facing each one individually and releasing them one at a time.  Knowing God is stronger than I am and that I am not strong enough ever on my own.  From the most benign fear to the greatest, remembering that He will never leave me; He will never forsake me.  And in the process, driving my relationship with Him closer to my centerpoint.

Settling In

My nights are getting longer, but the days are starting to take on a form of their own.

I have this empty, permanent-feeling ache inside, like a whole element is missing from the oxygen I breathe.  But I'm surprised to find that it's a liveable ache.  I can live through it--and not break.  I can still do the daily things my children need from me.  I still get the laundry done, dishes washed again, floors mopped, and food on the table.  I just do it all with only part of me.  But, somehow God has made that enough.

My favorite blogger wrote the most encouraging thing just for me (though she probably didn't realize it was just for me).  She posted a quote from Charles Spurgeon:

" . . . there is nothing you can want, there is nothing you can ask for,

there is nothing you can need in time or in eternity,

there is nothing living, nothing dying,

there is nothing in this world, nothing in the next world,

there is nothing now, nothing at the resurrection-morning,

nothing in heaven
which is not contained in this text --

"I will never leave thee, nor forsake thee."

I know I am not alone in this, no matter what the feeling of the moment is like.  And, I know that I will find my way with my children in my temporary skin as a single mom.  God is good, no matter what.

And, so our count continues, but much more silently.  I think we're all afraid to say out loud how many days it really is--can it be that long??

Can I be tired enough to just sleep?

One week down--only 36 more to go (or so!).  It's 10 p.m. already, and I am just sitting down finally for the day.  It amazes me how doing another's work can be so consuming.  And, yet, I feel closer to him somehow while he is gone.

The thing that generally aggravates me the most in my marriage is my husband's "OCD" side.  He cannot, and I repeat--CANNOT--just sit down and be content.  Everything has to be put away; we're talking every cup, every paper, and every counter wiped clean.  I'm sure you can see how this might lead to some aggravation.  Seriously.

But now I miss that.  So much.  I only leave out a few things each day, but I find myself stressed with the 10 things that I have to find a home for before I can sleep peacefully.  How often I overlook the blessing in what God has given my husband, and instead tend to see it as a weakness in him, or even in our marriage.  How often I have complained about this to friends, and held up my husband as a "can you believe this?" example.  I pray God can remind me of the blessing provided with this when he returns home!

I also have the new responsibility of fixing everything as it comes along.  So, the drill is my new best friend.  But, really--did this much stuff break regularly for him and I just never noticed how often he came home and simply fixed the next thing?  Or is this just a breaking-in period for me and an unusually high number of things have been broken, needed hanging, and generally need my attention--now.

243 days to go.  And I have worked myself into exhaustion daily, perhaps hoping that I will sleep soundly if I am that tired.  It's the sound, restful sleep that eludes me right now.  Knowing I am the one keeping watch here, and no one can back me up.  There's sort of that feeling like I'm about to fall over the edge and can't stop it.

Tonight my prayers will be for my children, for their daddy's safety.  As hard as this is, I don't think they've yet felt the full impact.  He has started writing postcards daily to us (bless him!).  These will be my daily saving grace.  Just seeing his handwriting is a comfort.  But, it reminds me, too, that God wrote for us as well--and left it for us to return to again and again.  Isn't it funny that I've never really looked at it that way--as the treasured postcard, love letter, or note from the most important person in my life?