Dear Aman,

A loud airplane went by tonight while the boys were just down for bed.  The sound scared Ollie and, 2 hours later, he’s still struggling to get to sleep.  He was begging me to sleep with him, so I laid down and began to sing “when loud airplanes are in the sky and I’m scare, God takes care of me, God takes care of me“.  He then asked if lightning is scary.  So I sang the same song with lightning.  And dogs. And the dryer buzzer that he hates.  In his world, these things are huge.

And tonight I’m stung by the simple words I’m singing to him.  He’s comforted by the truth that God takes care of him.  But how badly I want to sing “God takes the loud noise away, God makes sure the lightening doesn’t strike, God will not let the dog hurt you“.  How much I want to make sense of God to fill all the scary places, to fill all the brokenness.

Today is awful.  Simply, deeply and complicated-ly awful.

Addie isn’t here.  It’s been 3 years of life lived without her.  The lightning did strike.  The dog did bite.  It’s soul deep, and yet the next breath comes. Another breath in the reality of this brokenness.  How can that be?  As if the breaths are flirting at the notion of life moving on without her.  As time has passed, it’s been painful to know life can go on without her here.

Our crazy loud dryer buzzer just went off.  Ollie had passed out minutes before and I flew down the stairs in a race to turn it off.  Tears came.  Tears of gratitude that I can meet his needs, grasp in a way to calm his fears.  To feel moments of that is divine, a gift.  But there is a dark side to the story.  My racing is simply a grasp.  God wants to be my God.  Your God.  He would be less of Himself if my grasps added anything.  And more tears in light of that reality.

The brokenness here was big enough for Jesus to die for.  And as you so beautifully articulated on the phone today, He died for Addie.  And because of His deep love for her, she’s with him today.

Only He can fill this brokenness.  Which makes the grief deeper because He asks us to wait for His voice. Waiting is broken.

We won’t always have to wait.

But in this waiting season, the distance between Atlanta and Orlando has felt farther this week.  And I just want to sit beside you and hug your neck and cry and listen to you talk about her and listen to you sit in silence because of her.

I want to see her through your mama eyes of 3 years.

You’ve always done that well and I can’t wait to meet her.

Love you,

Jen

Advertisements