It's been a year.

We’re coming up on a year since Colton’s diagnosis. 

It feels both like its been days and also been lifetimes. 

Last night I was home. Our house isn’t big but it feels huge when you’re there alone. Maybe it’s because my heart feels achy and sad and lonely too. I went up to Colton’s room and started paging through his books and toys. Looking for treasure that I could brighten his day with today. But as I looked at his empty crib and the dresser collecting dust I crumbled to the floor. I sometimes forget that i’m hurting a lot. My pain often comes out in tear filled conversations with friends or strangers that wrap up quickly enough for me to not fully feel the weight of it all. I am fighting to try to muscle the courage to stay strong. And sometimes that means forgetting to let myself go to the place where pain sits. But I feel sad. Like really sad. I’m sad but also trying to chose joy when our world is screaming sorrow. And I feel scared. But trying not to be scared so that Colton doesn’t feel scared. And I’m grieving. But I have been for a year. And it’s weird because grieving is usually a reaction to losing something, which other than time and money, nothing has been lost. Colton is still here. 

There is clothes hanging in his closet with tags on them. I bought them the day before he got diagnosed. He never got to wear them. And there is a onesie sitting on his changing table that reads “proof of miracles” that I refuse to put out of my site because I need the reminder. There’s no sheets in his crib because he’s not home. Everything around me is reminding me how desperately I want things to change. But it doesn’t change the fact that they haven’t yet. 

Some days it’s a song on the radio that triggers a wave of sadness. Other days it’s seeing pictures of friends kids that are Colton’s age playing outside or swimming. And then there are the days when the sadness is tangible. 

That’s today. 

Today Colton is sick. He doesn’t want to get out of bed, or eat, or play. He doesn’t want to walk or go for stroller rides. It’s gloomy outside and I can only believe that the heavens are feeling what we’re feeling. The doctors told us it would be this way for awhile but the knowledge doesn’t make it suck any less.

And as I sat in his room last night I could hear him giggling at the sight of Jason pushing his play mower around. I could picture his fingers gripping the bars of his crib and him mumbling through his pacifier “night night I love you.” And it broke me. Because it’s not supposed to be this way. 

Some people go their whole life wanted to see Jesus move, asking Him to speak.  But never really needing Him enough to experience the fullness of His glory. If there is anything this year has taught me it’s that I’m desperate for Him. Like on my knees, face on the floor, sobbing my eyelids out kind-of-desperate. I know that there is no one else who can heal us and make us whole. None but Jesus. 

And today I need reminding to be patient with my pain. He is in the middle of it, rebuilding ruined places.

Day 6, worship song of the day.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7ESO6SHEwGk