Good Friday: Heavy with loss, Gazing into the light

I have had no signs of fertility since I lost Pocoyo. Perimenopausal, I guess.
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Today was a beautiful Spring day, and my kids had early dismissal, so out we spent the afternoon in the yard, swinging, swashbuckling, climbing, exploring. It was lovely.
And lonely.
If Pocoyo had lived, I would be just beginning to be awkwardly pregnant, now, having to carefully watch my step on the hillside.
If the Bookends had lived, they would be lounging in the baby swings, watching their siblings run and shout, watching the sun dapple through the new leaves…
If the Goober Pease had lived, they would be wrapped snugly in my MayaWrap, lightly sleeping, cuddled close…
The yard was bustling with beautiful, happy, excited children–and I knew myself blessed. It was loud with the silence of children not here–and I measured the weight of my loss.
Today, I am old in my bones. I am dried out by time and experience. All the life has drained out of me. Even my tears are dry.
It turns out that this is a good place to be.
Good Friday, we do see the helplessness of our cause. With all that we can do, we still cannot restore youthful fertility to a woman beyond her time. We cannot revitalize a body that has passed. We cannot restore our innocence, nor replace what sin has ravaged in us. But…
Last year, before the Bookends rested under my heart, God showed me a single purple lupin, past the time for lupins, blooming in the snow…
God asks Ezekiel, “Can these dry bones live again?”
Ezekiel answers, “God, You know.”
Good Friday, we see our hopelessness: Easter Sunday, we see our Hope.
I’ve decided to live this through, to trust through this, to refuse to be stifled by this heaviness.
Hope is, has always been, in Him. I’m gazing into the light.

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