All I want for Christmas is to be NORMAL again. I feel very much not myself these days. I don’t know how to fix that, and it’s getting old. I miss me.

I’ve written half a dozen posts in the last few days that are unpublishable. They’re too heavy, too much. Too internal. But for the life of me, I can’t write lighthearted right now.

My body has recovered, but I can’t say what’s going on with my heart. I want it to be better, I’m trying. But it lags behind my physical recovery. I have done some reading, because sometimes other people’s experiences help me understand mine. I read this today, and I’m posting it, because I am here right now.

…I run from the world and fling myself into God’s arms, and, like Jacob at Peniel, I ‘contend’ with God. It’s not about anger, or at least, not only about anger. It’s the whole process, the hope, the loss, the pain, the despair, the anger, all of it, start to finish. I contend with Him to settle things between us, to bring peace and healing to our relationship. I contend with Him because I can’t move on with my life until I do. And so I leave the world behind and isolate myself with my God — alternately clinging to Him and wrestling with Him, resting in Him and struggling against Him, crying out to Him and lashing out at Him. And, through the darkness, I refuse to let go. I won’t let go because, although losing my babies wounds me, losing my God would destroy me. I can’t let go because He is life and breath and letting go would be the end of me. So I hold on until the light dawns, and then, at last, I surrender. I surrender to His will and to His incomprehensible love–a love that would sacrifice His own Son for me, but would still allow such awful pain and loss into my life. God’s love makes no sense to me, that He would love me so deeply when I am so unworthy, and that He would hurt me so deeply when He loves me so much. But, in the light of a new dawn, my faith is renewed. My questions remain unanswered, but since “faith is being sure of what we hope for and certain of what we do not see (Heb. 11:1)” that’s what I hold on to–I have to believe there is a purpose, a good and loving and perfect purpose, that I can’t see. I have to believe that or I couldn’t live through so much loss. And, by believing that, I can put my questions aside until I get to heaven, and I can heal, and I can finally move on.

She says it better than I could.

I do not intend this blog to become a sorrowful, painful place. I just have to work my way out of sadness, and it’s slow going. I’m hoping, if I share it some, then it’ll lighten the load.