Bedtime is my most favorite time. While I'm sure that most (especially moms) can relate, our reasonings are vastly different. Sure, I love my sleep. (If you've ever woken me up before, I apologize for the death stare.) Of course, there's the satisfaction of a quiet house. Yes, crawling into a cozy bed underneath a warm yet airy down comforter with 3 fans blowing at a medium speed, (yes 3!) is my kinda Heaven.
But those are just a bonus.
I love tucking my kids in. After all of the "I thought I told you to get your school clothes out!" and the "You need what signed?"...the last trips to the potty, the one more drink, the "can't I just sleep with you?", the search for the missing favorite doll....there's Bible stories & prayer.
It took me a long time to want to do this again. A lot longer than I'd like to admit. But only hours before Isaiah was gone from this world, our routine was strikingly similar to the one above, and I just couldn't find it in me to repeat it. Partially because of weird superstitions or whatever you'd like to call them. Partially because I was mad at God. (Don't worry, He knows & we've come a long way.) But mainly because I hated the questions that would undeniably commence at the mere mention of Heaven or God's love. How could I explain it when I didn't even know if I believed it?
"When is Isaiah coming back?"..."Will I die?"...."Heaven sounds so good, I wanna die too!"...."But why did He take Isaiah? We loved him!" And many more hard questions that I was so angry for having to answer.
As much as it seems, I really didn't shut God out. I clung to Him. I prayed and I searched His Word and I cried and I saw His goodness in the smallest forms and I counted every last passing butterfly a miracle. But I didn't trust Him with my babies anymore.
I don't know that I can pinpoint a moment when I began to again. While I have had many "ah-ha" moments during my struggle with grief, most times, post-tragic-event life resembles that of a candle you accidentally left burn for too long. You gather your hands around the still moldable wax and smoosh it into place. You try to smooth over the fingerprint indentations. In the end you take a step back, and decide, "It's not pretty, but it'll still light." And that's what happened. We just melted back into the normalcy of it all. Not always pretty; but still, a glimmer of hope.
And so tonight, of all nights, (Wait for it) mine & Jetta's bedtime routine involved five different stories. One of which talked about David being chosen out of all of his brothers. "God doesn't care if you are short or tall or have blue eyes or brown, it's about the love you have for Him in your heart." I playfully put my ear to her chest and said "I hear it! You have the love in your heart!" But instead of a laugh, I was met with a worried expression. "I don't ALWAYS have that love Mom. Sometimes I do things that aren't lovely. But, I think I've done more love things than more bad things." I scooped her closer and hugged her tight. "Sweetheart, I know. Sometimes we don't make the best choices, but even when we make bad choices, God sees our heart...and besides that, He sent Jesus to cover those bad choices, remember?"
Her worried face began to disappear but not before a look of inquisition took over. "Why didn't God see your heart when Isaiah died? You have so MUCH love!"
The breath escaped my lungs and I rummaged though mental filing cabinets trying to find the words...any words, even if I didn't believe them. Part of me wanted to say "I know! He made a mistake! I still have so much love and it isn't fair!" Wait. David's life was hard. God CHOSE him for that. Lightbulb. "Jetta, God DID see my heart. He knew this love could change lives. He knew this love could move mountains."
So today, (yes, this exact day) as I reflect on where I was five years ago, gawking at two pink lines...I can rest in the assuredness that despite the heartache and pain, goodness abounds with just a teeny bit of faith, a Mama's love, an 8 pound baby, and a big God.
It's one of "our" days, Mama's Mans.
I'm gonna let it shine.
