My words are few these days. Actually, they are plentiful but they are not worth hearing or speaking or writing. They spew forth like a volcano in hot fiery fumes of anger and distrust and anxiety. They leave behind smoke that burns when it’s inhaled by whoever was unfortunate enough to be in my path.
I miss the easy days of writing. Of saying what I heard with my heart and seeing it form on the page into sentences and paragraphs that helped me find meaning in the struggle of everyday motherhood.
But this isn’t everyday motherhood. This is grinding hard, clay molding, dough punching out all the air motherhood. This is the kind of motherhood no one signs up for but all our names are right there on the dotted line when that baby is called ours.
This is the really, really tough love.
The kind that loves through the unknowing, the unyielding, the unwielding force of uncertainty. The kind that never gives up hoping. The kind that stands its ground in a parking lot when you’re on your knees keening and the only hands there are a mother’s.
My mom held me through it the other night. In the puddles on the pavement and the shaking and the uncontrollable screaming.
I lost it.
Lost it all.
My image as the one who’s holding it together, holding on to hope, holding hands with Jesus through this walk. The umbrella of protection a mother should be to her children in a time of crisis. My faith that all things work together for the good.
Oh, I lost it.
I spewed out all those awful words no one should ever say and the scripture of my morning Bible study had no place on my tongue that night.
Trust, says the Lord.
When the neurologist says with calmness and frankness, I just don’t know what’s wrong.
Trust, says the Lord. Your hope is in me.
I’m having a really hard time with this obviously. Truly, I believe I’ll be better when there’s a diagnosis, when our comedy of errors with mistaken orders and misread scans is over, when I can look back on this a year from now and marvel at how we got through.
I’ll be good then.
I’ll be stronger. I’ll be better.
Right now I’m a muck of a mess. I don’t do well with unknowns. I don’t do well with trust.
I don’t do well with waiting.
Jesus says that too. Be still and know.
But I don’t know.
I don’t know what’s wrong with my baby girl and I don’t know how we will get through this and I don’t know how I’m going to keep it all together.
Actually, I do know that.
I’m not. Keeping it all together that is. I’m just plain not.
But there are those who are. They bring dinner wrapped in foil and hands folded in prayer. I’m not trusting in a blind unknown. I’m trusting in a living God who has given us people to carry us through.
And if I’m to survive, I have to choose to trust in the great, unfolding plan he has for my little girl.
Her name is Hope you know. Amelia Hope.