It's nearly impossible.
This was the best we could wrangle, and this after five tries.
I'm making a memory book for my niece and nephew. Soon, they will live in another country. I suppose the day count is down to the twenties, but I'm not counting. My coping mechanism right now is avoidance, so I try not to dwell on the particulars. September 26? One big fat abstraction.
As you can gather from last night's photo op, the little ones were feeling a bit persnickety. My sister is trying to help them process this big change, but it's hard for a tiny heart to put words to emotions. So they're a little off, and I want to squeeze them close in a forever hug, but when you're a little off, the last thing you want is a perpetual cuddle.
This morning, before the sun capped the treetops and broke blazing hot, I sat on the porch swing praying. "They don't even understand how I love them, Lord," I scribbled with my favorite pen. "I want them to understand. The width, the tenderness, the fierceness I feel for them. I want this knowledge to cocoon them shoulder to shoulder."
And the quiet reply, "Isn't that how I feel?"
It's the too-good tale we are told but half dare to believe: that a heavenly Father's love would exceed our best earthly love.
I think of how I love Abby and Drew. I physically ache with love for them, and it's hard to conceive of a love stronger.
But here I am with my scaly fish, and there He is with a gift that crushes darkness and whispers truth and overwhelms with life (Luke 11: 11-12).
He aches for us to know. As I bend over my precious ones, yearning for them to get the love that billows over and rushes under them, He bends lower, yearns harder.
My deepest desire for Abby and Drew is that they know and love Christ. Right now, their parents make a decision that sprouts from this soil, and their children will grow up in the shadow of that choice. What a beautiful thing! Does it hurt my heart? Yes. Has the grieving just begun? Yes. Would I ever keep them from such a sweet inheritance, from their earliest memories forming under the awning of living sacrifice? Never.
I love you, my dear ones.
And in my meager love,