Sometimes, in the midst of what should be holiday joy, we feel bound up by sadness. And scrolling through social media to see giant red, white, and blue hair bows; coordinating family portraits; and smiles bright like fireworks can make us feel as though our toes are sifting through ashes instead of beaches. If that is you, friend, I have been there. As I’m immersed in writing my memoir about God’s redemption of our own tragic story nearly ten years ago, I’ve revisited the heartache of my past. Yesterday I discovered a March 2010 blog post from my original blog, Noah’s Road, which reads like a prophecy, a sweet promise whispered by God, and I want to share it with my readers who are buried in burdens and pain. Because this season of pain will transition into another season, and as you lift your heartbroken hands and wavering voice up to God, redemptive joy will follow. I bawled when I read this –seven years after first writing it, as I couldn’t have known when I wrote it how right I would be. Someday you will cry too. Tears of thankfulness instead of this pain – no matter how impossible it feels right now.
In the midst of one of the snowiest winters that Virginia has seen in nearly a century, I am buried under a mountain, struggling to balance the light and the dark, the good and the bad. I am ready for the snow to melt and the weight to be lifted. There are times when I have wanted to bury myself in the snow and hibernate. But no matter what, when I awake, nothing will have changed. I will still have a husband who loves so deeply and fiercely that he can sometimes barely breathe because he aches so much for our son Noah; I will still have the most gentle-spirited son, a boy who I love more every second of every day, a boy who has seizures and is developmentally delayed because he was shaken by his daycare provider; and I will still have my wrinkly and beautiful new baby, still untouched by the cruelties of this world, thank God.
I would be remiss if I closed on such a somber note because I still believe in our future. This has been a terrible winter, with inches upon inches of oppressive snow burying us in our houses, and the cities around us nearly shutting down. But warmer days will come. The snow will melt and we will trudge through the mud. Once the mud dries and the air smells of the early blooming daffodils and tulips, life will become a little sweeter. I believe this is also true for my Noah and for my family. We will get these seizures under control; we will not rest until we do. And someday the four of us will be barefoot on a beach, laughing and romping through the surf. We will find joy. And we will hold onto it tightly.Sometimes, in the midst of what should be holiday joy, we feel bound up by sadness. Encourage a friend
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