No, My Love. Surely, I am the luckiest.
We read a book yesterday titled, "The Invisible String," about how the entire human race is somehow connected through the love we have for the people in our lives. It was also about death and how we are still tied by love to those that are not here on earth any longer. Ava turned to me and said, "So the uncle dies?" "Yes," I answered. "Oh, that's sad. But, I guess that's life," she replied.
I'm not sure how to process that. It seems off that my daughter, still merely a babe, is speaking of things that are even difficult for adults to accept. But she does so with grace and poise. Kids with cancer are amazing. They learn to face their fears early on. They stare Death, as black as night, straight in the face and they don't run. They press on toward the light. And sometimes they lose the battle but not after putting up a hell of a fight. They live their lives with abandon understanding that this moment, right now, is all that they are promised.
I used to be terrified of the night. I still kind of am. But I have this incredible memory of this one summer night when Mike and the girls and I went for a walk around the lake near our house. It was nearing twilight and we knew it was time to go. Ava spotted a tiny beach near the edge of the lake and looked at us with those eyes. We told her we'd go for just a few minutes because it was getting too dark. She ran down to the shore and urged us to play, to dig our feet into the sand, and to savor life. As I sat there watching their silhouettes and the moon shattering the surface of the water into a thousand diamond lights, I locked away that memory because it was so beautiful. Who knew that an unscheduled visit to a tiny beach on a dark summer's night could be so comforting to me one year later? Now all I want to do is go back to that day and linger a little longer near the water's edge to make more memories with my daughters peacefully playing in the dark with the full security that we are standing watch over them.
I think one of the best ways to describe this time in our lives is a season of night. We are desperately looking toward the morning because we are scared. But the crazy thing is, my five year old is not. She holds our hand through the darkness and shows us the glittering lights on the lake. She points us toward Christ and his loveliness even when things around us are ugly. Child, we see the beauty and the hope of Heaven through your life. Because of you, we have learned to approach this life with childlike wonder, and to laugh even when our hearts our breaking.
Surely, My Love, I am the luckiest.
We read a book yesterday titled, "The Invisible String," about how the entire human race is somehow connected through the love we have for the people in our lives. It was also about death and how we are still tied by love to those that are not here on earth any longer. Ava turned to me and said, "So the uncle dies?" "Yes," I answered. "Oh, that's sad. But, I guess that's life," she replied.
I'm not sure how to process that. It seems off that my daughter, still merely a babe, is speaking of things that are even difficult for adults to accept. But she does so with grace and poise. Kids with cancer are amazing. They learn to face their fears early on. They stare Death, as black as night, straight in the face and they don't run. They press on toward the light. And sometimes they lose the battle but not after putting up a hell of a fight. They live their lives with abandon understanding that this moment, right now, is all that they are promised.
I used to be terrified of the night. I still kind of am. But I have this incredible memory of this one summer night when Mike and the girls and I went for a walk around the lake near our house. It was nearing twilight and we knew it was time to go. Ava spotted a tiny beach near the edge of the lake and looked at us with those eyes. We told her we'd go for just a few minutes because it was getting too dark. She ran down to the shore and urged us to play, to dig our feet into the sand, and to savor life. As I sat there watching their silhouettes and the moon shattering the surface of the water into a thousand diamond lights, I locked away that memory because it was so beautiful. Who knew that an unscheduled visit to a tiny beach on a dark summer's night could be so comforting to me one year later? Now all I want to do is go back to that day and linger a little longer near the water's edge to make more memories with my daughters peacefully playing in the dark with the full security that we are standing watch over them.
I think one of the best ways to describe this time in our lives is a season of night. We are desperately looking toward the morning because we are scared. But the crazy thing is, my five year old is not. She holds our hand through the darkness and shows us the glittering lights on the lake. She points us toward Christ and his loveliness even when things around us are ugly. Child, we see the beauty and the hope of Heaven through your life. Because of you, we have learned to approach this life with childlike wonder, and to laugh even when our hearts our breaking.
Surely, My Love, I am the luckiest.
3 comments:
And we, your audience, are so lucky and blessed for your beautiful words of courageous honesty. You and your daughter are inspirations. Thank you for sharing such intimate moments, memories, and connections. May The Lord overflow supernatural strength, peace, perseverance, and healing upon Ava and your family.
Wholeheartedly agree with the above comment. I've been very blessed and greatly awakened by your clear thinking and poignant writing. Thanks for sharing and letting us be a part of all this.
"May God grant you the miracle of tearful joyful beyond human understanding."
Quote from John Piper.
Love & Prayers,
Siew-Kim
Beautifully written Esther. Your posts bring me to tears each and every time, some due to sadness and some due to joy but always because they are so beautifully written and the wonderful lessons to learn. So happy to hear about the 0 blasts! Continually praying for His miracle.
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