I have two dear friends from my past driving up tonight for a visit. I am excited to see them but as I await this visit and their arrival I find myself wondering how they will expect me to be. I wonder in what emotional state they expect to find me. They are coming because of all that has happened. If Sully were not the baby he is this trip would not be planned. Should my friends walk in my door to find me in tears? If they find me well and smiling will they feel their trip is a waste? I'm still functioning so normally. Should I be? I see my line of questioning taking me beyond just these next few days and to into the opinions of all the people around me. It is a strange thing to not know how to "be" in grief. How revealing of my heart that even in the hardest days of my life I am concerned with others opinions of me and questioning if I am fulfilling their expectations of me - or rather - what I perceive their expectations of me are. I had planned on being apart of the holiday parade this year with some friends but assumed I shouldn't do that after our news of Sully. But, what if I do want to still be in the parade with Sully? I wonder if that is inappropriate or rather will "appear" inappropriate.
I think when we first found out our "news", life really did seem to stop. I couldn't imagine facing anyone or doing anything. But, now, I slowly feel myself embracing this baby for who he is and I do feel that life force calling me back, as you, Seastar, keep reminding me. At first, I just wanted everything to be over. It has only been in this past week that I've had glimpses of the desire to not hide my pregnancy but to embrace it and let my little Sully be who God intends him to be. My little niece came up and kissed my belly today and asked if my baby were a boy or girl. I told her my baby was a little boy named Sully and she just smiled and patted my belly which led my daughter to do the same thing. It was such a sweet and beautiful moment of recognition. I loved it. I loved that she didn't look to me to see how I would react - she could have cared less. She was so pure and innocent and uninhibited. She then went on to tell my son, Zane, that he now was going to have a sister and a brother, so matter of fact, so free of all the sadness in my own heart. That was the best moment of my day.
I want my heart to open more to this child and to the days we have with him. I want to let go of my concern with perceived expectations and also the expectations I put on myself. I watched a beautiful video sent to me today (thank you Nicole) that left me in tears but also hopeful as I watched another couples tribute to their own son's life. Of course you can feel the sadness but more than that you feel a resounding sense of celebration of this little boy's life. When this is all over I pray that I will have loved Sully more fully than I ever could have dreamed possible, that I will know the redemption in this brokenness, and that I, too, will have celebrated well.
Here is the site of the video if you'd like to watch it too: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=th6Njr-qkq0
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I thought about the 99 balloons video and about you and Sully today when friend shared a poem with me today- a poem based on a poem. You probably already know Emily Dickinson's poem about hope but if you need a reminder here it is:
Hope is the thing with feathers
that perches in the soul,
and sings the tune
without words,
and never stops at all.
Emily Dickinson
The newer poem, which I hadn't read before, catches so well what I feel when I say things like "Love is stronger than loss." and "Life force comes back if you let it."
The Thing With Feathers
Chris Bursk
It's the first thing you hear in the morning,
the last you hear at night.
In the woods, in the swamps,
in the old steeple, in the ruined eaves,
over the wreckage of a car
your mother drove straight into a wall,
The bird won't stop singing,
It is perched on the rafters of a house that burned to the ground.
Whenever you move, it's one hop
ahead of you. Tireless
as a creek it's a tune that will not allow itself
to be forgotten. It keeps building
and leaving its nest, all chatter, all expectation,
water singing to itself
in the shadows as well as the sunlight,
That insufferable Optimist.
No matter how many doors you slam,
curses you shout, rocks you throw,
it pops up louder than ever
on this very branch of the very tree outside your house
-as if stones must be your way of applauding.
It was singing the morning you got fired
the day you brought grief to the person
you most wanted to protect.
the evening when the great cause you'd pledged yourself to
failed. It sang
while your father was writing his suicide note,
the night your dear friend told you he was HIV positive,
the night you could find nothing remaining
to believe in, when all you wanted
was to be left alone. It sings in places so dark
you can't see into them.
It is singing out there now.
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