Today is April 27, which means I am now the mother to a two-year-old. "Time is fly", as a dear friend of mine once pointed out. Max is counting to ten and pronouncing the Swedish alphabet better then I. Learning to ride a bicycle and loving listening to music and dancing with me. Yesterday we were dancing around the living room, him bouncing in my arms singing a Swedish folk children's song, and the sorrow came up unbidden. Soon there would be a time when the last thing in the world that he would want will be to dance with me. So I need to get a lot of dancing in.
Happy Birthday, Max!
In a turmoil of grief, anger, disillusionment, confusion, fear, and despondency. And not poetically nor artistically interpreted. I am... raw. I keep asking questions I know the answer for, and questions I will never know the answer for. Questions I should not ask, or maybe I should? By faith the future is hopeful but I dread the great darkness huddling there. I have seen the dark with the lies and hate and gnashing teeth and how it chews up and spits out the sweet and the good and the loving. Am I faithless and unbelieving? Is it in my weakness that He is made strong? Or is it purely unbelief that leaves me flailing and mourning?