Six months in and
she's got my heart. She did from the beginning, of course, but that
heart is only getting more deeply embedded in that fragile place
where parents' hearts go, where it shatters at every story on the
news and thunders with panic at every feverish night, and yet somehow
keeps repairing itself at every wide-eyed grin.
Oh, Cora Ivy. I gave
her that name because it means heart of faithfulness – my prayer
for her – but how can I dare long for such a treasure when my own
faith is ever-waning?
It's the season of
faith. The ornaments hang from the tree so confidently, and those
lights flicker with abandon, while inside my heart is a wrecked mess
of sadness and fear and longing that's within all of us, but no one
seems to talk about anymore.
How can I look into
those beautiful little eyes without thinking about all that they will
see?
Thinking back on my
own trials, I can't help but wonder what hers will be. What theirs
will be. I
know not what it is, just that it is to come. Living life
in a fallen world, no one escapes the battles that overwhelm the
soul. Has my path prepared me? How can I help them through it all
when my own search hasn't always turned up answers and has too often
left me brokenhearted?
How can I teach them
about their worth when I struggle with my own? How can I tell them to
be bold, that they need not worry about what anyone else thinks of
them when their own mama has never learned how to do it? How can I
give away patience when I've run out of it?
How can I teach them
how to love when the world will never cease to throw at them every
false version of love it can come up with?
How
can I sit there and tell my big girl not to be so hard on herself
when Lord knows I do it to myself too? How can I encourage my boy to
be strong when I feel weak? How can I give this tiny baby who strokes
my face as she curls up against my body the security that she truly
needs?
I sing along with
the Christmas carols - “the hopes and fears of all the years are
met in thee tonight” - and the feelings come and go. Here comes the
hope. Here come the fears. And so on it goes as it has since the
beginning of time.
Before bed I read
them The Little Engine That Could, and I dwell on those words
more than they will ever know – I think I can, I think I can
– turn out the light, and keep chugging along. I keep
chug-chug-chugging. It's all I can do.
Then when all has
quieted down and I retreat to that place within that can get messy
and harsh and fearful, I force myself to fill it with hope. I think
about the story my clever little girl wrote and illustrated for me. I
think about my energetic little boy proudly bringing in the chicken
egg he collected from the hens all by himself. I remember the first
heartfelt, unprompted 'thank you' and the last big hug I got, and I
let my thoughts linger on all the laughter and joy in between.
Because that's the place my heart needs to go.
It's more than how
can I. It's why can't I. It's how can I not.
So I'll keep
chugging along, but I'll change the rhythm of the engine. I know
we can. I know we will. And we
will indeed, because what
more could be worthy of
yearning
for but the faith to carry us through?
I must pull my heart
from the trenches and place it on the mountaintop. It belongs to
them, after all. They need their mama's heart to soar above the
oceans so they can fly too.
