As I watch Griffin battle between wanting to sleep and wanting to be awake and playing; reaching for me in between soft cries that shatter my heart because I am so helpless here but he still believes me capable of taking away his hurt; watching his abdomen violently expand and then suck back in, hungry for enough air - I struggle to see God here.
I begrudgingly acknowledge somewhere in the back of my mind that I know He is, but I don’t see Him and I can’t feel Him. I don't know that I want to. Why should any of my pain and heartache be eased when Griffin's cannot?
This is not the way it's supposed to be. This is not the way it was supposed to go. But I was faithful. But I suffered strong as I could. But I was patient like Job. I know it is not by my actions or deeds or anything that I receive grace and mercy, but surely I deserved more than this - he deserves more than this. I'm not sure who I am raging against - God or myself - when I silently scream in my mind: "How dare you allow this."
I want so desperately to be able to reach into my own chest, rip my stupidly whole heart out, and gift his beautifully battle scared chest with it. Anything to make him feel better and whole.
This feels merciless to me, and it is only what I know that keeps my faith even remotely living and breathing. An obligatory life raft I must cling to because - no matter how much I would will it not to be so - this awful, ungrateful, wasted world keeps spinning despite my adamant refusal to continue with it.
Amidst all these fractured thoughts I realize this is the first time in my life I truly understand anger - feel the sting of betrayal like a million bees relentlessly jabbing at me until I am numb with venom and rage. I want to scream into the traitorously clear, lovely sky I see through his hospital room window: “Where ARE YOU? How can YOU let this happen to him?”
Faith is so easy when you get what you want.
But then, begrudgingly, I see Him. I stumble upon this blog post from a woman whose wisdom and strength I admired deeply, and I am reminded of who He is regardless of if I can see, feel, or even want to acknowledge it:
He’s in this mire of mud and heartbreak too. He is willing to get his hands dirty and suffer my messy human heart, to love me despite it. As I sit beside Griffin, unable to do anything but love him and comfort him as best I can, He sits with me - both of us knowing it fixes nothing, we will only be able to endure this place that is marred by wicked and sinister things such as this, faithfully loving our children. He is a father, just as I am a mother. As I am able to do nothing to stop what's coming or heal my son, He is here with Griffin too, waiting to welcome him to his true home, in his fully restored body, where every hurt and struggle will be forever gone and forever forgotten.
I look down to the silver lotus on my wrist - proof that things - beautiful things - still grow in the inhospitable, ugly, improbable places of this world. Proof that maybe one day I will be made better, and maybe even lovely again, for having endured all of this. I feel my heart loosely knit together again at that possible purpose in all of this, opening up to receive that small but significant truth, even if it only lasts until the next bout of anger nips at my heals.
At that moment, Griffin takes a deep breath and sighs in contentment, grabbing my finger with his warm hand, and closes his eyes for a peaceful moment of true rest. I remember how to breath again too, at least for a while.
We're still up to our necks in the mud, nothing has changed ultimately, but there's three of us here now and we are breathing easy for a moment - and, for now, it's beautiful despite the messy place we are in.
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