Truth? I am a ball of anxiety wrapped in a generous layer of “Lord, why?”
This was supposed to be the week where I drank in every last bit of the happy, sweet goodness that is my family at this moment. Yes, it would be tempered by the constant awareness of those people who ought to be here, but aren’t: Babita, my Mamaw (oh, I need her right now), the friends who ought to be down the road but instead are a continent away. That ache would be present, but it would be a distant thing. Because in a few days, God willing, I will have a new baby in my arms. And all of this good will explode into a somehow even better. This was the week to see, to feel, to know all of that truth.
Instead, I find myself scrolling through photos on Facebook, hoping for glimpses of my Nepali daughter. I find myself fielding questions– good, legitimate, concerned questions– from friends and family far and wide wondering what they can do, if there’s any news, if we are o.k.
The answer is yes, we are o.k. We are here, in the States, a world away from the concerns of water shortages and unstable buildings, so removed from the rumors and fearful debates of foreshock versus aftershock, not even plagued by the beginning onset of the inevitable post traumatic stress that keeps my friends bolting awake at night to lay worried hands across shaking children.
We are here. As many (well meaning) people have pointed out, we are here, thank God. No, I can’t imagine sitting in a tent right now in an open field, worrying calming my littles, reassuring my olders, sending my husband out to help where he could … and being days away from birthing a baby. Not sure where the clean water might come from. Not sure when the next tremor would hit. Not sure if the rain might start again or stay away. Not sure of anything.
We are here. And yes, I am grateful.
But I’m also torn. I’m also sick (literally, at one point, sick) with worry. I get news that Babita is o.k., that our other loved ones are accounted for, my heart begins to settle and then … another aftershock is reported, and I worry all over again. I hear from people on the ground that relief is, as of yet, nonexistent, that no agency is really making a dent in the need, that power was on for a bit in an affluent area, but in other places … not so much.
This is where I find myself, days before I meet this newest little soul. Basking in the excitement, yes. But quietly. With a heart that holds some small reservation about the days to come, a heart that cannot fully dip in to the utter delight that I have always cherished in the lead-up to that first, most beautiful meeting.
I am here, on the cusp of the new. I am here, awaiting the miracle. But I am praying for the miracle in another place, too. Far from my physical location, but near to my heart. I am praying for this child, for these days, for more than I have maybe ever asked of God. I am praying for His reach to cover it all, to be all the “omni-“s we know He is.
He is able. He can comfort my losses, He can protect my daughter, He can still the trembling earth, He can grant us a safe delivery, He can help me feel connected to others in these precious days, He can spread the news of His truth from the ashes of this disaster. He can even grant me enough peace in all the tumult and grief of the past year to maybe, possibly, let someone else hold this baby sometime before his or her first birthday. He can.
So that is the theme of this week. Not a focus on shedding one skin and slipping into another, not a time of anticipating and absorbing and feeling. This is a week of waiting on God’s awesome power, and being still.
Because He is able.
Lord, have mercy and hear our prayers….
Being still is never easy. It seems that every time I am asked to be still, it is the same struggle. How is it that it doesn’t get any easier. I do think that recognizing that we are called to be still is half the battle. Prayers for the hurting today.