An Unexpected Journey

"Look Out Kindergarten, Here I Come" by Nancy Carlson. The book arrives in the mail today. I thought that these free books we get were supposed to stop on Makiah's 5th birthday. Apparently not. I feel an invisible punch in the gut as my eyes trace over the title. One more reminder that she is not with us. That we had to return the clothes I bought during the end of season sales last summer for her to wear to kindergarten. That her friends can write their last names now, but she never got to learn. I wipe down her baby toys. Her little sisters are grabbing things now. Time to pass on big sissy's things. She wanted them to play with them. No, she wanted to teach them to play with them. I sit in her room with the babies laying in front of me on the crisp white bedspread . I read her books to them and big, blue eyes like saucers bounce to the rhythm of the words. I sing "The Itsy Bitsy Spider," and two pair of lips curl into grins at the hand mo...

Daddy's arms.  There's nothing like them.  Cutting her cord his face is alive with joy.  Holding her in his strong hands tears trickle down.  One hundred thousand  kisses from soft lips couched in a scratchy goatee.  He always keeps her on his day off while mommy works because he wants to.  Diaper changes and spit up never sway him.  Daddy daughter dates for crunchy fried chicken legs are what memories are made of.   Splashing in muddy puddles together.  Sharing breath and sweaty sleeping close.  Eskimo kisses and Valentine's dances.  She throws herself across his lap and exclaims " Don't tickle me, Daddy!"  Sweetest laughter follows.  Eating first food...catching first fish.  Daddy gently teaches.   "Daddy, please swing with me... play barbies with me... pretend mermaids with me..."  she asks.  His answer is always yes.  Bedtime routines that last an hour.  Stories and rocking...

A pale light creeps up in the east.  The purple clouds are streaked with brilliant pink as the world rolls over and begins to waken.  It reminds me of a painting Makiah did at preschool that she painted with a fork- subtle lines etch an intricate pattern into the sky, swirling color through the cumulous layers.  And I am on the porch. I am sipping mocha, munching cinnamon bagels, watching the sky... and crossing a rickety bridge over a chasming gulf.  It has been almost a year since I have been here.  Almost a year since I got pregnant with twins and became too sleepy to keep my morning appointment like I should.  Almost a year since I was put on bed rest and wanted to spend my mornings there in bed.  Almost a year since the wreck, and I did not want to come out anymore.   Here is where I feel accepted, but I have been rejected.  Here is where I feel loved,but I have been hated.  Here is where I am known, but I have been cast asid...

The guitar strums.  People sing.  "Here I am, calling out... if you can heal the broken hearted, if you can take away the pain...will you hear me if I call on your name..."   God.  Think on him.  Engage.  Pain swells in my chest until I think it will  burst from the pressure.  Throat tightening.  Eyes on fire.  Press the thin lids tighter and seal off the flood.  How to recover?  How to grasp this and his love?  Now is when I always abort.  Avert the eyes and the thoughts and retreat to shallower waters.  Pull back to safety.  But not today.  Today I think of the widow's words that I read in VOM (Voice of the Martyrs) Magazine.  The attackers broke each of her husband's fingers, then his arms, then his legs- each time giving him an opportunity to renounce Christ.  He refused, and the  radical Hindu mob buried him alive. The Indian woman's words seared my heart.  "But God is alive, ...

Blue.  Red.  Green. Yellow.  Little rainbow hand prints joined at the thumb make colorful butterflies.  Rainbows fly between them.  A single sketch of a little girl stands in the middle.  Peeking out from blond hair are two eyes- one blue and one green.  She always drew them that way because "sometimes my eyes look blue and sometimes they look green."  I can hear her giggle and see her squish up her eyes with love's silly face.  Her name is written below her prints- in her own handwriting.  All her friends names are there, too.  It is a beautiful quilt.  More than pictures- it is my baby's last class. This is the last project her work will ever be a part of.  The stitches are woven through the fabric.  Through my heart.  Somehow knitting me to her memory... to the children and teachers she loved and who loved her.  A precious piece of love and time.   I would have paid any price for it at the auction....

"One, two, three!"  Fifteen hands, mostly tiny, release fifteen strings and fifteen pink balloons surge up towards the heavens.  As they climb the wind blows, and they drift apart like wisps of dandelions after lips are open and breath is blown.  The sky reflects blue, maybe the blue of her eyes, and watches as they slip past the clouds.  Fifteen voices shout to the heavens the things they hope Jesus will tell her.  I love you!  I miss you!  Happy Birthday Makiah!  Their love rings out across the playground, and maybe the echos can be heard in heaven.  I know they were heard in this mommy's heart.  Fifteen pairs of eyes stare until the pink orbs disappear into the distance.   Later that day at the "resurrection ground," her mommy and daddy and sisters stand in the sticky south Georgia heat and attach our love to five pink balloons.  And a little mermaid one.  We send them floating up to meet her.  The sobs are ...