It was just a few weeks ago. Tears falling down. She doesn’t think she can do this. Walk down that aisle. To lay her baby to rest. And I remember. Her hands trembling. She can’t get her earrings in. Family steps in to help. It can’t be real. And I remember. She can’t get to the front. It may as well be miles. Heavy feet pushing forward against all that is right. They have to hold her arms. And I remember. Songs echo across empty dreams. The words attempt to hug her heart. They try to breathe out hope and covering. But she can’t stop shaking. And I remember. The day no mother ever wants to open her eyes to. Because your child’s eyes won’t. Just keep taking the next breath I say to her. In and out right now. And I remember. I also remember the first inkling of hope. The first time I heard God again. The first time I prayed again. The first time I stepped in church again. The first time I opened my bible again. I remember the two lines on the pregnancy test. The biggest surprise ever.
Yet Hope returns when I remember this one thing- the Lord’s unfailing love and mercy still continue, fresh as the morning as sure as the sunrise. Lamentations 3:21-23 (GNT) There aren’t very many things in our ever changing world that seem to hold fast and remain the same day after day. Two things that have remained untouched by time my entire life are the sunrise and my grandmother’s house. My Mimi lived in the same house in a tiny town in central Alabama since 1940ish. When she moved there she was in her early 20’s with one tiny tot or maybe two. It was a two bedroom house that they added onto over the years. But in my lifetime I could always count on the old swingset in the backyard to be there. The tree she planted as a young adult had grown into a massive oak that seemed unchanging and committed to outliving us all. The pale blue walls and carpet of her living room were always inviting in a calming sort of way. Two years ago my grandmother finally went to be with Jesus af