The Daddy Warrior stood behind me, placed his left hand firmly on my shoulder, reached down through all the tubes with his strong right and took his son.
Five years later, I dug deep into the front flower bed, watering the dirt with my tears, trying to control my trembling hands, and my burning heart. I knew in the deep crevices of my mind that she wasn't developing normally. I had hoped and prayed for so long. One telephone conversation with a birth relative shattered that hope with information that suffocated.
My wonderful neighbor was suddenly present. She gently took the shovel from my hand, wrapped her arms around me, let me catch my breath, accepted the hurt of my heart.
Three years pass and I'm an exhausted momma, driving through rush hour traffic to return my twin girls to a caseworker, who will return them to a foster mom. I fight back tears as I know I must surrender them again, wait just a few more weeks to be their Momma forever. I struggle with the tears their beloved foster mom tried to hide as she left them earlier in the day with me.
After the exchange, driving in the opposite direction, He warms my heart with the image of my precious girls greeted by their beautiful foster Momma, who promised to care for them until they could legally come home forever. My six-year-old sees my tears, reaches out his hand to me at a stoplight, tells me he loves me.
And four years later, I receive the phone call from the Warrior Daddy. The twin's caseworker had just called, with the revelation of a little two-year-old sister, and would we possibly consider... another? How I rushed to call her caseworker! I remember the jubilee within my heart, the anticipation and hope. And then, how the days turned into weeks, the phone calls stopped, and my hope turned into anger. How could I feel in one moment giddy with expectancy, and another like I'm hemorrhaging? How would I hide the horror of loss from those around me who could not understand?
And my beautiful sister sat at the farm table, held my hand and let me cry. She took my four, filled in the gaps, and gave me time to grieve.
The life of a Momma is filled with hard. Hard moments that terrify the soul, take breath away, exhaust the body and mind, tear apart the heart. Hard moments when humble, shaking hands raise high to the only One who can save, reveal, rebuild, comfort.
"He gives more grace." James 4:6a
In terror, He sends firm grips. In collapse of hope, He sends gentle, accepting arms. In exhaustion and waiting, He sends another to care for and provide. He gives a little hand to reach out and proclaim love. In anger and loss, He sends a hand to hold.
Yes, the hard gets harder, but the comfort increases.
He gives more grace.
