Such exquisite torture.
I don’t know why I do it to myself.
But give me some quiet time to think, and it is bound to happen.
My two youngest are tucked away asleep in their beds, my oldest is at an activity for the girls in our church, and my husband is out doing neighborhood visits with members of our congregation.
I should be enjoying some rare and precious moments of quiet and solitude.
And yet somehow, like every other time I am left alone for any given period of time, I find myself pulling an oversized men’s large cotton t-shirt over my head, listening to songs of nostalgia, flipping through pictures of my past life, while draped in the fuzzy blanket that kept my husband warm on his final day.
It hurts so much. And yet it feels so good. Bittersweet memories flow down my cheeks in the form of rolling tears.
I took it to another level tonight when I searched my old Idaho address on Google Earth. There, on the screen, was a clear view of my life five years ago. The flowers I planted, the kiddie pool on the back patio, our old pop up camper in the driveway… I felt sure that if I could jump into the picture, I would find myself inside rocking a chubby baby girl, and chasing after a tutu obsessed toddler. I was probably sleep deprived and worn out, and I absolutely was counting down the minutes until the garage would squeak open, and my RJ would walk in the door with a healthy dose of back up.
I was happy. And blissfully unaware.
How I miss being unaware.
I would be lying if I said that seeing my old house didn’t add a bit of salt to my already festering heart wounds. I really am happy with where I am at now, with the way that God has led me to where I am supposed to be. But as much as I am thankful for my new path, I also find myself grieving what used to be my reality, and what never got to be. I long for the picture I have in my mind of today, for the plan that never happened and the life we didn’t get to share.
The tired mom in that pretty little house could never have guessed how different life would soon be. How much harder it was going to get.
Now, the dark days are especially bleak, but the the bright ones are vibrant and more beautiful than before. Walking through the dark really has taught me to appreciate every drop of light.
So here is to the light.