Journaling
As I read back over my journal for the winter of 2006, I am impressed at the hours and pages I devoted to pouring out my feelings at that busy time of my life; and realize how valuable those hours and pages were at the time, in helping me to process my feelings, and are now as a record. Especially for me, being blessed with a brain that holds onto memories like a sieve holds water. If I didn’t have my journal, I would have forgotten this particular day in January:
I went to bed feeling depressed last night and woke up this morning feeling awful. I managed to pull myself together, go for a walk, start the day with a good spirit. But the kids were tough to deal with . . .
At 8:30, I blew. I told the kids (at the top of my lungs) “I woke up feeling awful this morning. I tried to pull myself together and be loving and cheerful, and I’m getting no help from you guys. I know I’m not perfect, but I’m human and I’m hurting, and I think I deserve better than this.”
Then I stormed down to my room and cried hard for a long time. Cried for the baby. All these . . . friends of mine, having babies, oh, it hurts, brings up everything that I’ve lost just when I might be ready to put some of it away.
I tried to look inside me . . . for guidance from the Lord. It took awhile before I could do that without bringing up more pain, and fresh rounds of sobbing. But finally I reached beyond that and found Him there. He loves me - He knows, has felt what I am feeling. He will carry me through this. And I need never feel ashamed of loving, of loving deeply enough to grieve.
I went upstairs and found the towels folded. Further up, all the kids engaged in making cards and beading necklaces for me. [One of my older children] said, “Mom, we think you need some time by yourself and we’d like to take all the kids out for a walk.”
Well, do you know what they did? They pooled their hard-earned money, walked all the way to Bernard Callebaut, and bought me $20 worth of the best chocolate in the city. I was so touched by their love and kindness. I’ve been telling them so, all day.
Another day in January, I recorded this:
I pictured that tiny body suffering in some way. Something went wrong, not because God ordained it to be so, just because of the imperfections of mortality, and though I don’t know why, or for how long, she was not doing well, suffering. I pictured a loving Father in heaven, in council, saying, “She has suffered enough; let us release her, let us bring her home.” He could have chosen to leave her here; he could have chosen to heal her. But bringing her home was done with as much love as healing her would have been. It was right for us.