Some Days

Some days tears fall. Some days words fall.

The other night words fell. They just... Appeared. In verse. And that almost never happens for me. But in less than 30 minutes the whole of my heart and mind fell onto the page in rhyme and rhythm. And I was so peaceful. So. Calm. I wasn't fearful or angry. Just. Peacefully sad. Restful. And I thought that it might be my last Everett post. Intentionally deciding to move on as it seems so fashionable to do. So...spiritual to do.

And tonight I have cried for the last hour. Trying to find every picture I have on hand. Scratching these (explicative) bug bites and crying. Uncontrollably at points. I finally just got out of bed so I could cry without fear of waking Keith.

And there is no reason I should be awake. I've had 2 glasses of wine and 2 benedryl to help the itching that covers my body from toes to shoulders. Stupid chiggers. I don't like chemicals, but I hate chiggers. They will not survive the wrath of a grieving mother, I assure you. They will die. And there is no chigger heaven, but there better be a chigger hell...

There isn't enough coffee to keep me awake during the day. Or enough energy to make me want to DO something. And sleeping seems so...impossible in the stillness. Because when the joyous noises of a four year old and a two year old are silent, my mind is not. When the tv is off and all there is to hear is the crickets...if you can hear them beyond the other side of the snoring, my heart and my mind beg to see pictures of Everett. Some days I give in. Some days I don't. Some days I'm not strong enough to remember why I'm fat. Some days I'm not strong enough to let go and cry. Some days I'm peaceful, thinking I've grieved my last night, just thankful to have met my son alive. Some days I'm far too exhausted from chasing my wonderful little boys to invest in myself emotionally. Some days.

I share the tears, not because I seek prayers or pity. But because if you see me, I will not cry. I lack the strength in person to face my reality. I share the tears because I find there are those who seem to need them from me. But I can't seem to give them. Not on cue. In the middle of OfficeMax, I can. In the car, alone. Alone at night with my thoughts and pictures. But not on cue. I will talk about the boys, talk about the office, talk about hair, nails, your back or neck problems, your diet, but I can't talk to you about my Everett. Not yet. And it seems to be a need for a few, to SEE me cry, to SEE me broken. And I lack the strength in person. So they leaving wanting...wanting something I cant give.

Some day I will be able to TELL the story or say more than "we are as good as can be expected, if not better", or "I have my days, but mostly I'm doing well". These are true answers. But they seeM shallow, because they are. But shallow is all most people want to hear. They want to hear that you've gotten over the death of your son. They want to hear that you're happy he is in heaven. They want to hear that you are ever praising God for the time you did have.

And while all that may be true. It isn't the whole truth. The whole truth is that I still waiver somewhere between f*** you, God and It is Well With My Soul. It's just that I'm honest enough to say it. To write it. To admit it. Because although I know Everett is in heaven, it doesn't make trying to explain that going to church (where Aiden associates most closely with Jesus' home) is not going to see Everett. Because although I DO feel blessed to have held him and met him alive, I still WANT him to be alive. Because even though I think God is using my son to influence lives-- at the very least the four of us in this house-- I don't LIKE the way it's happened. So I sit here, somehwere between my emotions and my decision to have faith. Because being at peace, and feeling the peace, doesn't mean the storm stops. It just means I'm anchored hard. But the storm still comes. And I can't seem to ignore it.

And the tears still fall.

Especially at night.

In the quiet.

Alone.

It's easy to remember your blessings when the boys are laughing. When you're outside getting infested with chiggers and being feasted upon by mosquitos, swinging and playing. When you are being zerberted continuously by your exuberent 2 year old. When your four year old is on a first name basis with his John Deere tractors (I gotta get my John!!) It's easy to remember your blessings when the car always starts or when church reminds you too. Or even when you watch a few minutes of news.

It's easy to remember your blessings and feel blessed. It is much harder to feel blessed when you remember how cold your infant son was, even wrapped in three blankets. It's harder to remember to feel blessed when your body can't seem to understand where the baby is.

But it's a choice.

It always is.

And it isn't an easy one.

To choose hope.

To choose peace.

Or forgiveness. Or grace. Or love. Or whatever it is you lack because life has stolen it from you. And you feel slighted. You feel inadequate. You feel destroyed. Bitter. Angry. Victimized.

It's not easy to choose a different way than you usually do.

Even through the tears. It's not easy to remember your blessings when you feel so weak.

Some days you feel the intensity of life. Some days you feel the overwhelming peace of faith. But each day you choose to have faith. Each day you choose how to respond. Each day.

Some days hurt. Some days heal.

Everyday keeps rolling by.

It doesn't stop. Time. It just keeps going. And the choices of my heart dictate its story. Some days are easier than others. Some nights have sleep. Some nights don't. Lingering between craving to remember each moment. And longing to stop the pain. Between happy memories. And agonizing ones. Between sobbing at the feet of Jesus. And singing It is Well With My Soul.