Friday, November 6, 2015

For the promised morning, oh how long?

My neck is bent over to the side awkwardly and a small fuzzy headed baby is snoring softly into my ear. I'm lingering over post-bedtime snuggles with my youngest. He is decidedly a mama's boy, and I am 1000% ok with that.

This past year has been both one of the sweetest and hardest years we've had since we became parents, the second time- not the first. Our days are full, loud, messy and unapologetically ordinary. I could write for days about the complexities, the contradictions, the messiness of being a bereaved mom.

But I'm drawn back here to write about my first son, the one who would be eight this Sunday. The one whose absence stretches over everything- to quote someone much more eloquent than me.
The son I can't hear snoring or hold in my arms. The one who made me a mom, though I never experienced motherhood with him how I longed to. The one my arms ache to hold, the one I think of every time someone asks me how many children I have or when we take a family picture.
The missing one. Our first son.

This grief is a sacred thing... a beautiful, rich, hope-filled part of us.

With a five year old, a two year old and a newly one year old baby, this year has looked different from years past. There are no long pauses of quiet rest or reflection on the boy who would be eight.
Stitched into our life, our days, is a fabric worn soft with brokenness and held together by hope.

And it is so beautiful.



Sara said...

Oh Ebe... It is beautiful! Thinking of you sweet friend! Remembering the precious life of Owen with you! Love you!

Anonymous said...

Beautiful writing =-)