Some nights I wake up at 4 am and I lay in my bed, wondering how I got here. More than two months have separated me from our adventure. It was just yesterday that I lay awake at 4 am on the other side of the world, clutching my stomach in some of the worst pain I've ever felt. Stupid Malaria. It was just yesterday that I lived out of a backpack and dreamed about the day that I would be able to hug my family and walk the fresh earth of the Blue Ridge Mountains. It was just yesterday, right?
The passing of time is probably the most painful part of living, loving and leaving. I replay important moments over and over in my head, trying to make sure I remember every beautiful detail of Africa that intoxicated me. But then memories fade, I forget the sound of laughter that rings out from the people I love. I forget conversations that deeply changed who I am. And I also forget how thirsty I was at times, or how spiritually drained and broken I felt. I forget the romance lost. Time passes, and I try to become normal again. I attempt to accept that forgetting and remembering are both parts of living, loving and leaving. And I do.
But that doesn't mean that I know how to be okay with missing my boys growing up. I accept that I can't relive the past, and I don't want to. There's no point in wasting the present. But I'm addicted to dreams for the future, I'm addicted to hope. I get lost in my desire to be involved in the lives of little ones who will one day be as big as me, and one day might feel for someone what I feel for them. I cherish the thought that they have their whole lives ahead of them, and I just want to be there to make sure that someone is loving them the whole way through.
This is the first time in my life that I don't have a plan. I'm not in control. I don't know how to trust my Father to protect them, to keep their innocence and their resolve. I don't know how to balance feeling like a mom and being a 20-year-old college student. To be honest, those two parts of me get into fist fights every day. Each one competes for air, to dominate my thoughts and my actions.
But what can I do?
I can keep living. I can accept that love blindsided me this summer and I can thank God that my heart bleeds. I wouldn't ever go back to who I was before May 13th, 2013. I can only go forward and walk into new adventures. I am captivated by love.
So, to all the mothers out there who can hold their babies tonight, hold them a little tighter. Be patient and understanding and let them know in everything you do that they are your joy.
And to all the mothers that can't, know that we're all in it together. Rest in the promise that there's a Father who has arms big enough to hold all the little ones that we can't reach. Trust Him.
The passing of time is probably the most painful part of living, loving and leaving. I replay important moments over and over in my head, trying to make sure I remember every beautiful detail of Africa that intoxicated me. But then memories fade, I forget the sound of laughter that rings out from the people I love. I forget conversations that deeply changed who I am. And I also forget how thirsty I was at times, or how spiritually drained and broken I felt. I forget the romance lost. Time passes, and I try to become normal again. I attempt to accept that forgetting and remembering are both parts of living, loving and leaving. And I do.
But that doesn't mean that I know how to be okay with missing my boys growing up. I accept that I can't relive the past, and I don't want to. There's no point in wasting the present. But I'm addicted to dreams for the future, I'm addicted to hope. I get lost in my desire to be involved in the lives of little ones who will one day be as big as me, and one day might feel for someone what I feel for them. I cherish the thought that they have their whole lives ahead of them, and I just want to be there to make sure that someone is loving them the whole way through.
This is the first time in my life that I don't have a plan. I'm not in control. I don't know how to trust my Father to protect them, to keep their innocence and their resolve. I don't know how to balance feeling like a mom and being a 20-year-old college student. To be honest, those two parts of me get into fist fights every day. Each one competes for air, to dominate my thoughts and my actions.
But what can I do?
I can keep living. I can accept that love blindsided me this summer and I can thank God that my heart bleeds. I wouldn't ever go back to who I was before May 13th, 2013. I can only go forward and walk into new adventures. I am captivated by love.
So, to all the mothers out there who can hold their babies tonight, hold them a little tighter. Be patient and understanding and let them know in everything you do that they are your joy.
And to all the mothers that can't, know that we're all in it together. Rest in the promise that there's a Father who has arms big enough to hold all the little ones that we can't reach. Trust Him.
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