always hope.

Mornings are the hardest.

The house is quiet and the lonely of reality sinks deep within my ribs.  The dreams I once dreamed have been far removed and the desperate truths escape beneath levels of deep despair.  They feel as solid as setting concrete; much like the stone we created as a family weeks ago to symbolize the strength we have built.

It's tumultuous, the despair of change.  Heart wrenching and tide turning.

I find myself cleaning counter tops as usual, begging myself to feel normalcy and embrace it.  I scrub harder, faster, deeper than usual as if to wash away the hurt that has consumed my spirit.  Vomit sits low in my gut and the nausea is unending, mocking me.  

Strength eludes me and their faces taunt me as I look at them with no real clarity-only the knowing that they bring it forth in me.  The exact essence of who I have become has allowed me to know no greater pain than the idea of losing her, which sustains me in moments when the crumbling happens. 

It happens unexpectedly.  

In the dark of night or in the somber shadows of day.  As the gloom has mirrored my footsteps, the heaviness has represented my anguish.  It's alleviated only for moments when I see them, smiling.  I hear her lip tuck under bottom teeth and she mouths vocally, "mom."  

It is fleeting but soon maybe not so.  Maybe before I know it, the pain will turn to joy like it has before.

The absolute is the most painful.  The abrupt knowing that it is all fleeting.

Life and death.  Love and loss.

A Farris wheel of winding motion leading us back to the beginning.  Leading me back to the Maker-the beginner of all things and the finisher of our life; our faith.

For now I'm muddling through these days trying to preserve truth in this home, my heart and their minds.  But Spring is upon us and surely the days will gleam brighter.  There will be hope that is renewed by light and in that, I will find deep rest.  I know that harder days are coming; unfortunately that is my truth-greater than any other.

So in these days my focus is in the present.  The very moment that I'm breathing.

And that is a gift that I know has been given in the midst of trial and pain.

There are very few people who truly learn to live there and be content with it.

I'm thankful for the chance to do so.

Thank you for praying.  Thank you for seeking God on our behalf.  Please continue to do so and know that I'm ok in the meantime.  There is still joy here.  

There is still peace.

There is always hope.