It’s been almost 10 months since our sunshine girl went unexpectedly to Heaven. 10 months of intense hell that we could never have fathomed existed. Alternating between numbness and agony — feeling apathetic nothingness, and then begging to go back to feeling apathetic nothingness, because the alternative is so horrible. Wrestling and thrashing with God, and yet intense nearness with Heaven that can only exist when your baby is there.
In the midst of that, there is life. Not life as we knew it, but life. We continue to wake up each day. Our other children continue to need things like breakfast and cuddles. We continue to do mundane things… and every day we march “one day closer.” Sometimes there is even joy — something that I know would be impossible without Jesus.
We have also continued what God has called us to do. Something that feels confusing now… since He so clearly called us to build this big house on the hill, and He so clearly promised to fill it… yet there has not been addition, there has been subtraction. We are one less. We thought we’d move our baby into this house. We thought she’d have a girly, beautiful bedroom here. We thought she’d chase chickens here. We thought we had years and years more of watching her twirl here, in a dress that matched her sister’s. We thought we understood, but we didn’t. There was no way to understand what was coming, and there is no way to understand it until the plan is revealed to us in all its glory when we go Home. Not this earthly home we are building, but Home.
They poured the foundation and we painted our battle cry on it.
She’s buried in the distance.
The rain came down, the streams rose, and the wind blew and beat against the house, yet it did not fall because it had its foundation on the rock.
We are building it, Lord. Fill it. Adoption, foster care, bio babies, the lost, the hurting, the misunderstood, the refugee, the broken — we trust you to fill it, to use us all up, and to bring us Home one day to you and to Harbor. Here we are. Use us, send us.