"hey"

It is 8:15 in the morning and by God's grace, I have only now just gotten up. I felt compelled to write something, though I can't say exactly why. People asked me before Copeland was born what I would do with this blog after she was gone, and I didn't know then. I still don't totally know now. She was the heart of the reason why I ever sat down to write anything at all. But ultimately, the Lord has used what He gave me to glorify Himself in mighty ways, so who am I to decide 'I'm done' when this is really His in the first place? He has given me an urge to write; it's almost like without pouring out my heart I remain pent up inside with the ache all the more voracious.

i confess I'm still in a bit of shock, knowing that she's gone. The funeral home came and took her later in the night, so we had some sweet time even after the Lord had called her home. I have to keep reminding myself that from the moment she passed, she was no longer there - the body I so loved to cradle, the cheeks I loved to kiss, even her tiny nose that, no matter what I did, I couldn't keep warm enough - they were no longer her. To say she is in heaven is so cliche to me; it feels somewhat like being told, "Oh, but here's the good news: though your child isn't here anymore, she's in Never Never Land. Don't worry." Though my faith is real, and I do believe, it was all I could do not to chase the car last night as it pulled out of the driveway taking my angel away. Later, in the house, I felt as though I would crawl out of my skin wanting to get my baby. I had been told of this panic, but I hadn't expected it, not really. After all, we've known this day would come for 3 months now. But nothing... nothing prepares you to willingly hand your child to a complete stranger knowing you'll never see them again.

i don't mean to sound morbid or even to depress anyone, although I know I'll find it hard at times to smile or to simply 'go on' as normal, despite the absolute necessity of that at some point. I remember thinking last night that I can't believe I actually fall into the category of people who have endured one of the hardest things life can hand someone. It doesn't seem real. And yet that word - endure - stands out and reminds me that somehow, as I sit in the darkness of my bedroom and hope I have the strength to face Copeland's bassinet in the kitchen, I realize that God is giving me what I can't give myself, what even no amount of Bible verses fail to give were it not first for His Spirit imparting to me an understanding and a thirst for Him. I confess I long to understand - to believe - in what I can't right now. I long to believe heaven is real, that my girl is being rocked by caring, loving arms, that she is absolutely healed from the effects of her cruel disease and that never again will she be hungry or frustrated at her inability to breathe. That she will look on the gates occasionally, waiting for her mommy and daddy to appear. My conversations with God right now are more like those you have with a junior high boyfriend as you pass them in the hall at school: necessary in order to remain in a relationship, but short, probably somewhat insignificant to any on-lookers. "Hey." That's about all I can muster at this point. What do you say to the God of the universe who chose not to heal or save your baby? Who, though they are giving you strength to endure, moment by moment, actually allowed the situation that require endurance in the first place? I call on you to pray for me. I will not turn my back on Him. But words fail me.