The fog creeps in at night and lays a shroud over our morning. Warm air has banked in underneath this gray day and I’m wrapped in a cocoon of quiet as I strain past headlights in the dim white while I drive the little man to school.
For once he doesn’t shout or scream or holler and sing. He’s still and my mind races and I beg for the morning to go by slow. There is much work to be done and many words writing their way across my heart.
And there are those tears I shed, falling softly down my cheeks like the rain outside my window, tears I cried over the top of my youngest daughter’s dark head this morning while she wept on my shoulder and I faced the reminder again that our life right now is this hard, uphill battle always.
We plateaued a bit and coasted on routine and rhythm. Then last week she couldn’t grasp her cup and I mopped milk and hardwood floors everyday.
I drive through the misting fog and know this is how we’re covered.
Wrapped. Shrouded. Blanketed. Warmed.
Unable to see that clear view from the mountaintop, a life of endless possibility and wonder stretching out before us in green rolling hills and lush pastures and skies as blue as a dream, we instead peer through a gauzy haze and can only see the here. The now. The right this very moment.
And because we’re held so close, we cannot be afraid of what we cannot see. We can only be grateful for where we’ve already been and wait for the fog to lift.
Friends, we continue to covet your prayers for our Amelia and what is hopefully her healing journey from a neurological disorder that lingers in so many little ways.
Linking up with Jennifer Dukes Lee and #TellHisStory.