Wednesday, April 6, 2016

Back when Lilah was little, I started writing because I had so much in my head and I wanted to capture it--to remember the sweet mercies of the Lord and remind myself of the miracle that was each day of her life.  I was overwhelmed in every sense of the word and it was therapeutic for 'hash-out' on (virtual) paper my thoughts, feelings, and perspective on this life I had been called to live--that was so very different than my plan.

To be honest, I have not had the courage to re-read a single post (except one a friend directly sent me about the time Garrett wanted to be black). I think it is much the same as the reason I can barely stand to look at old pictures of myself (besides the pounds and the wrinkles)....I see the reflection of a woman who is innocent and carefree...I read the words of a woman who thinks that that was as bad as it got...a woman who had no idea of what was ahead. And right now, I have no more pieces of my heart to break, so I cannot look back.  But I will someday.  And I will be grateful.

It is an act of will to write again.  I do not want to.  I cannot write and be fake--and what is real is really real.  Hard and raw and painful and maybe private, I don't know. But deep down, I have this nagging sensation that I have to put the words down.  Partly because I know I will not be the same person in 10 years that I am now....and I think it will be beautiful to remember today.  Partly because I can't afford my counselor.  every.  single.  day.  But mostly, because I am afraid to forget.  Afraid to forget the long days and the short years, the feel of her hand in mine, the softness of her hair, the curve of her back...the days that Lilah was in my care.

The last 8 years of my life have simultaneously been the most excruciating and the most fruitful. I have already forgotten much more than I like and I'm going to start recapturing what I can
remember...starting here.

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