I want to write about all of the up’s and down’s of the past nine months since our family became complete—the triumphs of the hard-fought battles of bonding, the pits of the exhaustion and loneliness, the struggles of searching for and reclaiming my own identity again, the ridiculousness of what the whole ordeal must look like to the outside world.
I want to write about the joy-drenched labor of leading a daughter through her first steps as a new believer, crawling, falling, running after her Savior, sometimes inadvertently pushed down by Mom, because Mom still falls, too.
I want to write about the anxiety I’ve felt in the darkness of it all, in the long, excruciating silence of waiting for God to speak again. Hungering and thirsting after Him, until, without the opportunity for Bread and Water, I had eventually all but given up hope.
I want to write about the desperate desire for someone to speak true, kind words when my soul feels like it is dying and I can’t find space alone in my house to find space for the Word. Not the pull-yourself-up-by-the-bootstraps advice that stabs a dying man in the heart, but words infused with the gospel and hope and perhaps even a compliment or two about how my children are probably not all going to end up in prison or therapy and graduate high school with a third-grade education, because I am a good Mom, and I am a Mom who is trying, and because failing all this (and fail it will), there is yet grace. These really are the thoughts that pummel my waning confidence every, single, day.
I want to write about how most days it feels as though life is finally, finally, leveling out and that the much-too-fragile emotions of individuals are now beginning to withstand the daily strain of close relationship. I want to believe that this is natural as roots dig deeply into the fertile soil of family.
I want to write when I have the time and the clarity of thought and the moments alone, but it is rare that all of those things coincide.
And I’m just not sure I can find the words . . .