So we have a family trip scheduled for Disney. This was NOT my doing. It's a free trip, and my husband, on behalf of our children, couldn't resist. The land of oversized mouse ears and overpriced corn dogs is only 19 miles away from a place where parents bring their children--where we brought our child--to be slaughtered. One is a much more expensive "vacation" than the other, I can tell you. There's an E-ticket you do not want to punch.
This is not the best time of year either. If all had ended well so long ago, I probably would have sustained some sort of post-traumatic stress disorder from the hyperemesis alone. But I added so much on top of that it hardly registers.
The smell in the air. Winter is coming. Death. It reminds me of an illness, a child, a place, a happening that I spend most of my time trying to pretend never existed. Denial, ladies and gentlemen.
I'm not very good at it, and in fact I'm very bad at it particularly when my nose is thrust forward into the steaming pile of poo that is a trip to Orlando in winter months. Or any month really, but especially in winter.
I've been having some nasty-wasty thoughts of late. The truth of it all threatens my soap bubble with its menacing briar. This morning I was marveling over my daughter's tiny sleeping profile when I had the thought that if she needed a kidney I would give her two for good measure. Immediately, I thought of the first--maybe a girl just like her--a child in any case. And here I was doling out organs to her sister. Inwardly I laughed at myself and the perversion of this strange reality. Self-loathing.
Yes, I believe in Jesus, save your emails.
Two months ago an old but quietly cherished friend of mine accidentally ran over her 18-month-old while planting plum trees on their farm. I reiterate: it was an accident. It was not intentional, it was not premeditated, it was not scheduled and paid for. Still, she sat like a zombie for days, because that's child loss. But she emerged from the bewildered fog, because she loves Jesus and Jesus loves her (and the little children). Even so I wonder...I wonder if she feels the same about herself as she did before. I wonder what her mirror reflection means to her now. It's not something one asks, and so I'll never know. But I'm curious, not because I'm hateful, but because I'm a natural creature who wants to learn more about life and death and our experiences here on the big blue marble.
While my friend isn't guilty of murder, she will always know the driver of the van that killed her son. And so, dear brothers and sisters, while Christ's forgiveness renders me innocent, I will always know who killed my child. I will live with that until I go to be with Him.
For now, I have the heartbreaking poignancy of a trip to the big mouse who is also ironically part of the machine of sorrow.
:: ashli 6:56 PM # ::