a bit more story-telling

 We crossed the bridge over the ravine yesterday.  We were heavily laden with luggage and backpacks filled with things that linked to memories and moments and time and significance....and also just lots and lots of stuff.  18 months worth of stuff.  We didn't even get it all packed up because fear showed up and we had to move, move, move to get across that bridge fast.  

    As we were preparing to cross the bridge, we also picked up some butterflies we didn't expect.  They fluttered in with some vivid wings of presence....memories of specific things, feelings that were fresh and raw like anger and truth....and I could feel myself picking up my shield and buckler as we identified some threats and fiery arrows and tried to catch the butterflies, deflect the arrows and figure out which things were dangerous....I was franticly trying to feed the other kids in the middle of it all because that's what moms do...and asked Roger to please just pray.  Pray quick.He prayed out loud.   He did  it while the microwave was beeping and the plates and forks were clattering...because around here it can never just be about this one thing.....there are always, always more things happening.  

    We ran across the bridge.  We dropped some stuff along the way but most of it got there.  So did he.  There are cries that stay with you forever.  I remember a cry from a friend the day she had to bury her newborn baby.  I will never forget that cry coming from the other room at the funeral home.  

    His cry is one I have only heard from him two other times.  Once when he had to do a good-bye visit to his birth parents....and once when he was dropped off on our driveway.  Deep grief....more like a croon of a desperate animal alone in the cold, dark night.  I know this is hard to read.  It's hard to write.  Imagine how hard it was for the little boy to stand in his skin and live through it...and imagine the mother's love that knelt down with open arms to receive him....in his deepest grief....and welcome him in....

    In the story....it started to rain.  It rained and poured and now we are standing in these puddles that feel like grief and loss and hope and fatigue...and regret....and longing...and relief and gratitude...and the butterflies are still flying around our heads.  As we stand in the puddles we feel the soggy mud beneath us but also the clouds that are breaking above us...and we believe in the sunshine coming and the rainbows that God promised way back with Noah and the ark and the flood...that He would never again destroy the earth and the world he created.  

    I  can stand in my puddle on one side of the bridge and I can smile across the ravine at her and the puddle she is standing in....holding him in....and know that the bridge.  is.  strong.  We can go back and forth as often as we need to for him.  I know the sun will shine bright and hard and hot and dry up the puddles again.  The Son does that.  All will be well....and the story will continue beyond my pen and I can smile and set the pen down.  Only the Lord knows when the story will be done.....