This morning I woke up groggy to the sound of my lively four year old baby girl crawling into my bed as the the soft sunlight from dawn was quietly filling my bedroom through my wide wooden shutters.
She likes to toss and turn. And toss and turn. And toss and turn some more until she hears her brother in his room making sounds (which doesn’t always mean he’s actually waking up) 🙂
That’s what little sisters are for though, right?
They woke early, needless to say. They often play for minutes or hours before we head out off to start our day, depending on what we have going on that day. I was half awake as I listened to them crack each other up and play.
I told myself before letting my feet hit the floor this morning, today was surprisingly not sad.
I have so much to be thankful for. And it’s more than that, I am truly so happy. So okay. So at peace with it all. Truth be told, I never thought I’d have this much. These two. This life.
I was a bit optimistic and delusional, but that’s what happens when you’ve worn the weight of grief for any amount of time. You’re ready for something new. No amount of can-do spirit can wash away the longing in a mother’s heart. The weight of grief comes like a tide over your heart, whether you are feeling particularly sad, or not. It is the cost of love.
I served breakfast a few minutes later and while my heart was so full with my babies around the breakfast table, my heart longed to make sprinkle-happy-birthday-waffles for an eight year old big sister on the morning of her eighth birthday.
My heart is so full of wonder over the little girl she would have been.
So here we are again.
E I G H T.
Breathing into this truth and allowing my heart to ache today for the girl she would be, the life I hoped to share with her, but mostly for the day we are together again.
From the end of the earth will I cry unto thee, when my heart is overwhelmed: lead me to the rock that is higher than I. Psalm 61:2
I am feeling the ache a little more strongly today, and that is okay. We grieve deeply because we have loved deeply.
The hard grief.
The parts of grief that don’t “look or feel” like grief at all.
The picking up and rising.
The living and laughing and loving.
And the sting of death.
She is worth it all.