The sky is gray and it is only 79 at 9am, a nice change of pace from the 100 degree days we’ve been having that keep us inside, tired, and grumpy. But the drought still rages and the skies only hold promise of rain. This season is so hard, so unforgiving. It mirrors what’s stirring inside. I cry out for rain that doesn’t seem to come. My heart is breaking for the farmers.
My middle girl has been sick for a week. Pain that is too much for her usual tough girl self to take. She’s a trooper and doesn’t even cry when her knee is opened and bloody from the pavement, but now she cries out and holds onto me shaking. Doctors don’t know. A specialist at the children’s hospital needs to be called if her healing doesn’t come. My heart is broken for her and all the kids and families at children’s hospitals, waiting for their healing.
My oldest is going to OT once a week. She seems to enjoy it, but I wonder if it will help her make friends. I worry about her, only 4 years old, and what her future will hold. I worry if peers and teachers will see the amazing girl she is, full of life, compassion, and a love for her Savior I’ve never seen for someone her age. And my heart breaks for her, and the other kids and moms I see in the OT office each week.
And we’re stuck in this damn condo, the one that is my fault we bought. And it’s beautiful and it’s home, but there is no more room. It lost so much value and we couldn’t sell it even if someone wanted it. And I tuck my three girls in at night and know there are two more I should be tucking in. We sit at our table for our meals and I look at the two empty seats and know they should be filled. And my heart breaks that we can’t adopt and make a home for two more. My heart breaks for me and it breaks for them.
The city feels hard. Those dreams of making a difference, of immersing ourselves in a different culture seem so high minded, unrealistic, and oh so far away. Taxes, bad schools, lack of fresh air, gunshots, assaults, economic downturn, no room to move. I want to give my girls wide open spaces to breathe, to run, to imagine, and to create. But I want them in the city to be with others, to learn new cultures, to love the way Jesus tells us to. And I can’t have both. And I feel like a failure, I feel like an over-privileged phony. I’m a mess. Am I the rich young ruler? And my heart breaks for us all.
And each morning I read the blogs that I love. And their words encourage and edify. But when it comes time for me to write I can’t. There’s nothing new to say and everyone says it better anyway (who would read it if I actually used it?). And if I write out my truth, what if others are hurt? So I compose prose in my head as I wash dishes and change diapers. And at night I dream in poetry. My blog I set up years ago stays unused, shaming me each day. And my heart breaks that I let my dreams die and that I let fear rule.
And Sarah Bessey asks what is saving my life right now. And frankly, I have no idea. Because right now, it seems like nothing is. I’m broken. And I realize that what is saving me…my brokenness. My heart still breaks for others. In a moment of naivety I cried out to God, “let my heart break for what breaks yours” and even though my other answers haven’t come yet, that one has. And I see the orphans and I burn to help them. And even though it seems so out of reach, it’s saving me. And my one year old walks in my room, her chubby legs carrying her so proudly, and she wraps her arms around my neck, gives me a wet and messy kiss and talks to me in something akin to speaking in tongues. And she’s saving me. My three year old cuddles next to me and tells me that it is starting to feel better after my oldest prayed for her, and that’s saving me. And my big girl wakes to tell me of the wonderful dream she had, and how Jesus speaks to her at night and that I don’t need to worry. And thank you Jesus, she’s saving me. And my husband friend sends me a text message to hang in there and that he loves me, and he is saving me.