Today is the last day of February. It is gone and I am sad. I hate this month, but at the same time it hurts to see it go.
Because I need to let go. I have nothing...my arms are empty...I have a hole in my heart that will never be filled. I am angry, I am resentful, I seek vengeance for my suffering. It will do nothing though. All of these hurts that I have accumulated cannot be satiated by anything here on earth.
So, I pray. I pray as these hurts arise that Christ will take care of them. I ask him to bear them for me. I am letting go, sometimes unwillingly. They are no longer my hurts to bear though. They were never my hurts to begin with yet desperately I have clung to them, still frantically I chase after them.
This is my year though. This is the year that I turn my heart, my mind, my being to God. So, today I give up my Luke. I will always dream about him, remembering the day he was born/died. I will remember to secretly celebrate the day I wanted him to be born. Remember what it felt like when he kicked at the same times everyday. I will remember the outfit I wore the day after I found out that he had hydrocephalus and spina bifida.
I will remember it all because I never want there to be a day...an hour...even a minute that I so completely and totally turn my heart, my mind, my being from God.
Sunday, February 28, 2010
Monday, February 8, 2010
"The Horse and His Boy" by C.S. Lewis
Ike and I are reading this book right now...a chapter a night. Usually we come to the end of the chapter and want to read more, tonight was no exception. I love this passage. I do not think I have ever loved something printed on paper so much my entire life. It is a thing of beauty and it will draw me in to read it over and over again.
What a different way to look at life. God finds me so special, so worthwhile that he brings trials into my life, not to hurt me, but to make me better. I know this, I have known this, but tonight I realized it. So, take a minute and read the following...
“I can’t see you at all,” said Shasta, after staring very hard. Then (for an even more terrible idea had come into his head) he said, in almost a scream, “You’re not–not something dead, are you? Oh please–please do go away. What harm have I ever done you? Oh, I am the unluckiest person in the whole world!”
Once more he felt the warm breath of the Thing on his hand and face. “There,” it said, “that is not the breath of a ghost. Tell me your sorrows.”
Shasta was a little reassured by the breath: so he told how he had never known his real father or mother and had been brought up sternly by the fisherman. And then he told the story of his escape and how they were chased by the lions and forced to swim for their lives; and of all their dangers in Tashbaan and about his night among the tombs and how the beasts howled at him out of the desert. And he told about the heat and thirst of their desert journey and how they were almost at their goal when another lion chased them and wounded Aravis. And also, how very long it was since he had had anything to eat.
“I do not call you unfortunate,” said the Large Voice.
“Don’t you think it was bad luck to meet so many lions?” said Shasta.
“There was only one lion,” said the Voice.
“What on earth do you mean? I’ve just told you there were at least two the first night and–”
“There was only one: but he was swift of foot.”
“How do you know?”
“I was the lion.” And as Shasta gaped with open mouth and said nothing, the Voice continued. “I was the lion who forced you to join with Aravis. I was the cat who comforted you among the houses of the dead. I was the lion who drove the jackals from you while you slept. I was the lion who gave the Horses the new strength of fear for the last mile so that you should reach King Lune in time. And I was the lion you do not remember who pushed the boat in which you lay, a child near death, so that it came to shore where a man sat, wakeful at midnight, to receive you.”
“Then it was you who wounded Aravis?”
“It was I.”
“But what for?”
“Child,” said the Voice, “I am telling you your story, not hers. I tell no one any story but his own.”
“Who are you?” asked Shasta.
“Myself,” said the Voice, very deep and low so that the earth shook: and again “Myself,” loud and clear and gay: and then the third time “Myself,” whispered so softly you could hardly hear it, and yet it seemed to come from all around you as if the leaves rustled with it.
Shasta was no longer afraid that the Voice belonged to something that would eat him, nor that it was the voice of a ghost. But a new and different sort of trembling came over him. Yet he felt glad too.
The mist was turning from black to gray and from gray to white. This must have begun to happen some time ago, but while he had been talking to the Thing he had not been noticing anything else. Now, the whiteness around him became a shining whiteness; his eyes began to blink. Somewhere ahead he could hear birds singing. He knew the night was over at last. He could see the mane and ears and head of the horse quite easily now. A golden light fell on them from the left. He thought it was the sun.
He turned and saw, pacing beside him, taller than the horse, a Lion. The horse did not seem to be afraid of it or else could not see it. It was from the Lion that the light came. No one ever saw anything more terrible or beautiful.
Luckily Shasta had lived all his life too far south in Calormen to have heard the tales that were whispered in Tashbaan about a dreadful Narnian demon that appeared in the form of a lion. And of course he knew none of the true stories about Aslan, the great Lion, the son of the Emperor-over-the-sea, the King above all High Kings in Narnia. But after one glance at the Lion’s face he slipped out of the saddle and fell at its feet. He couldn’t say anything but then he didn’t want to say anything, and he knew he needn’t say anything.
The High King above all kings stooped toward him. Its mane, and some strange solemn perfume that hung about the mane, was all around him. It touched his forehead with its tongue. He lifted his face and their eyes met. Then instantly the pale brightness of the mist and the fiery brightness of the Lion rolled themselves together into a swirling glory and gathered themselves up and disappeared. He was alone with the horse on a grassy hillside under a blue sky. And there were birds singing.
What a different way to look at life. God finds me so special, so worthwhile that he brings trials into my life, not to hurt me, but to make me better. I know this, I have known this, but tonight I realized it. So, take a minute and read the following...
“I can’t see you at all,” said Shasta, after staring very hard. Then (for an even more terrible idea had come into his head) he said, in almost a scream, “You’re not–not something dead, are you? Oh please–please do go away. What harm have I ever done you? Oh, I am the unluckiest person in the whole world!”
Once more he felt the warm breath of the Thing on his hand and face. “There,” it said, “that is not the breath of a ghost. Tell me your sorrows.”
Shasta was a little reassured by the breath: so he told how he had never known his real father or mother and had been brought up sternly by the fisherman. And then he told the story of his escape and how they were chased by the lions and forced to swim for their lives; and of all their dangers in Tashbaan and about his night among the tombs and how the beasts howled at him out of the desert. And he told about the heat and thirst of their desert journey and how they were almost at their goal when another lion chased them and wounded Aravis. And also, how very long it was since he had had anything to eat.
“I do not call you unfortunate,” said the Large Voice.
“Don’t you think it was bad luck to meet so many lions?” said Shasta.
“There was only one lion,” said the Voice.
“What on earth do you mean? I’ve just told you there were at least two the first night and–”
“There was only one: but he was swift of foot.”
“How do you know?”
“I was the lion.” And as Shasta gaped with open mouth and said nothing, the Voice continued. “I was the lion who forced you to join with Aravis. I was the cat who comforted you among the houses of the dead. I was the lion who drove the jackals from you while you slept. I was the lion who gave the Horses the new strength of fear for the last mile so that you should reach King Lune in time. And I was the lion you do not remember who pushed the boat in which you lay, a child near death, so that it came to shore where a man sat, wakeful at midnight, to receive you.”
“Then it was you who wounded Aravis?”
“It was I.”
“But what for?”
“Child,” said the Voice, “I am telling you your story, not hers. I tell no one any story but his own.”
“Who are you?” asked Shasta.
“Myself,” said the Voice, very deep and low so that the earth shook: and again “Myself,” loud and clear and gay: and then the third time “Myself,” whispered so softly you could hardly hear it, and yet it seemed to come from all around you as if the leaves rustled with it.
Shasta was no longer afraid that the Voice belonged to something that would eat him, nor that it was the voice of a ghost. But a new and different sort of trembling came over him. Yet he felt glad too.
The mist was turning from black to gray and from gray to white. This must have begun to happen some time ago, but while he had been talking to the Thing he had not been noticing anything else. Now, the whiteness around him became a shining whiteness; his eyes began to blink. Somewhere ahead he could hear birds singing. He knew the night was over at last. He could see the mane and ears and head of the horse quite easily now. A golden light fell on them from the left. He thought it was the sun.
He turned and saw, pacing beside him, taller than the horse, a Lion. The horse did not seem to be afraid of it or else could not see it. It was from the Lion that the light came. No one ever saw anything more terrible or beautiful.
Luckily Shasta had lived all his life too far south in Calormen to have heard the tales that were whispered in Tashbaan about a dreadful Narnian demon that appeared in the form of a lion. And of course he knew none of the true stories about Aslan, the great Lion, the son of the Emperor-over-the-sea, the King above all High Kings in Narnia. But after one glance at the Lion’s face he slipped out of the saddle and fell at its feet. He couldn’t say anything but then he didn’t want to say anything, and he knew he needn’t say anything.
The High King above all kings stooped toward him. Its mane, and some strange solemn perfume that hung about the mane, was all around him. It touched his forehead with its tongue. He lifted his face and their eyes met. Then instantly the pale brightness of the mist and the fiery brightness of the Lion rolled themselves together into a swirling glory and gathered themselves up and disappeared. He was alone with the horse on a grassy hillside under a blue sky. And there were birds singing.
Hope
So, I must be feeling a little poetic lately...
Hope is the thing with feathers
That perches in the soul,
And sings the tune--without the words,
And never stops at all,
And sweetest in the gales is heard;
And sore must be the storm
That could abash the little bird
That kept so many warm.
I've heard it in the chilliest land,
And on the strangest sea;
Yet, never, in extremity,
It asked a crumb of me.
Emily Dickinson
We drove home from picking Ike up from class, Alexander threw a tantrum....all the way home. He is so angry sometimes and it really concerns me. We were sitting down to eat lunch a few minutes later and Alexander folded his hands together and looked up at me saying, "Pray?". Hope.
Sunday, February 7, 2010
Tonight I Can Write The Saddest Lines...
Well, not really...but that is the start to one of my favorite poems by Pablo Neruda. The first part of the poem starts as follows:
Tonight I can write the saddest lines
Write, for example, the night is shattered
and the blue stars shiver in the distance.
The night wind revolves in the sky and sings.
I memorized it completely one night that I was broken up with...I thought I knew pain then(:
Today I cried in church. My entire life I have cried in church, just been overwhelmed by emotions, but always tried to stop it. Today I cried unchecked. I did nothing to stop the abundance of tears that were streaming down my face. I walked into church late as they were singing the last lines of "Lead Me to the Cross". I fumbled with a stranger to find a seat in the back. I sat in the very last row with Ike in my arms crying...trying to explain that I was not sad...not in the way he was thinking.
It feels so good to be in the land of the living again, even if it means that I will cry each and every Sunday. It is okay. Just to feel again...it is coming back. With this grief that is leaving my body, joy will replace it. I am wretched...I am...but He is persistently, patiently and lovingly willing to change me. May I never turn back, I will stumble, but may I never turn back.
Tuesday, February 2, 2010
You Will Not Abandon My Soul
Preserve me, O God, for in you
I take refuge.
I say to the LORD, "You are my Lord;
I have no good apart from you."
As for the saints in the land, they are the
excellent ones,
in whom is all my delight.
The sorrows of those who run after
another god shall multiply;
their drink offerering of blood I will
not pour out
or take their names on my lips.
The LORD is my chosen portion and my
cup;
you hold my lot.
The lines have fallen for me in pleasant
places;
indeed, I have a beautiful inheritance.
I bless the LORD who gives me counsel;
in the night also my heart
instructs me.
I have set the LORD always before me;
because he is at my right hand, I shall
not be shaken.
Therefore my heart is glad, and my
whole being rejoices;
my flesh also dwells secure.
For you will not abandon my soul to
Sheol,
or let your holy one see corruption.
You make known to me the path of life;
in your presence there is fullness of
joy;
at your right hand are pleasures
forevermore.
Psalm 16
Monday, February 1, 2010
February
I hate February, with all my might, I hate this month.
I want to hide away, I want to sleep this month away. I want to wake up one morning and look outside and see that March has come.
February is the month in which I choose to end my own child's life.
I hate that it creeps up on me. Each day I awaken to the thought that my life should be different. There is never really a moment that passes that I do not think of Luke. Do I have closure? How can I have closure? How can I feel right about this? There is a constant inner dialogue that plays in my head...if only you had done this...then in the deepest darkest corner of my heart there is that little voice that says what if you had done that? Would it have been any better? He would have suffered, how he would have suffered. How can I not have turmoil?
I want to hide away, I want to sleep this month away. I want to wake up one morning and look outside and see that March has come.
February is the month in which I choose to end my own child's life.
I hate that it creeps up on me. Each day I awaken to the thought that my life should be different. There is never really a moment that passes that I do not think of Luke. Do I have closure? How can I have closure? How can I feel right about this? There is a constant inner dialogue that plays in my head...if only you had done this...then in the deepest darkest corner of my heart there is that little voice that says what if you had done that? Would it have been any better? He would have suffered, how he would have suffered. How can I not have turmoil?
My soul continually remembers it
and is bowed down within me.
But this I call to mind,
and therefore I have hope:
and is bowed down within me.
But this I call to mind,
and therefore I have hope:
The steadfast love of the LORD never ceases;
his mercies never come to an end;
they are new every morning;
great is your faithfulness.
"The LORD is my portion," says my soul,
"therefore I will hope in him."
his mercies never come to an end;
they are new every morning;
great is your faithfulness.
"The LORD is my portion," says my soul,
"therefore I will hope in him."
The LORD is good to those who wait for him,
to the soul who seeks him.
Lamentations 3:20-25
Me with JQ...evidence of God's mercy.
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