By now, you've probably made it to the fifth stage of grief...and accepted the idea that there might never be another post on this blog again.
It has been a long couple of months.
I have been so far underwater that I had to give a few things up. Among these were blogging, homemaking, and being happy. Do you know how much time and energy these things take? For a few days I even gave up breathing and thinking and being likable. All of them much too difficult given the pressure I have been under.
[Olivia gave me a card for my birthday a few weeks ago. In an attempt to be encouraging, it said, "April Showers Bring May Flowers" and she had made little pop-ups. My pop-up had my face in a thunder cloud complete with rain and lightning and all my children were little pop-up flowers. She gave me an admonishing hug to go with it. There have been days when I nearly die of shame seeing it.]
Anyway, the sun is finally coming out. Thank heavens for that.
I talked to Barb on the phone on Sunday night.
She mentioned how I was clear down on her blog roll just above the private bloggers. I sighed and changed the subject. Because, as some of you know, I have a serious crush on Barb and it nearly killed me to know I had disappointed her. (Gosh, I hope that was disappointment in her voice and not relief.) The next day I nearly wrote a post because, like I said, this is a serious crush. But even love could not overcome my debilitating list of obligations and a few more days passed.
Last night I went to the ballpark where two of my children were playing simultaneous games on different fields. It was exactly like my current life, moving from field to field, catching glimpses of my children's lives as I try to be in three places as once. And let me tell you, I'm not as good at that as you might think.
But eventually, Ethan's game ended and I sat on the bench with the rest of my family watching the end of Olivia's game. Near the end of the game, David left to get Chinese food and Caleb nonchalantly got up from the bench and walked over to the fence. There was a girl a few feet away talking to her friend, and now and then he would glance over at her and then turn and intently watch the game.
I was stunned.
This is one of those moments, I told myself. A moment where all the moments after this one will be different.
He edged a bit closer but the game was nearly over, and I could see both his hesitation and his bravery in the hands he had shoved in his pockets.
And then, there was a serendipitous fly ball. Everyone yelled, "Heads up!" The ball landed behind them and it was enough for Caleb to catch her eye and start a conversation.
Last night in bed, David plied me for more details, "What did he say?"
"I don't know."
"What did they talk about?"
"I don't know."
He was frustrated by my lack of eavesdropping skills.
I told him, "Don't you see? It's not what he said to her. It's the thought of going to talk to her at all. Can't you see what's happening? He's leaving. He's going to find a wife and build a house and a life and a covenant with her." I tried to explain it--this quiet, roaring moment, this thing that had happened, that looked small but was actually as big as eternity, this leaving our bench to go to talk to a girl, even though he was unsure and nervous.
I was awed to find that this did not make me sad. Not one little bit. I felt happy and proud and amazed and reverent. I felt like telling heaven to look, to look down and see the miracles in my life, to see the wonder of its creation. I felt like I had swallowed the whole depth and breadth of eternity between the pitching counts of one batter at a little league softball game. I felt like Rebekah.
David had gone with Caleb that very afternoon to his sixth-grade maturation program at school and so he could only say, "I know."
And then he kissed me.
And now, because you've been so good and patient, a small, subtle picture story about the beginning of the end. I am only glad I was there to witness it myself.
