Dear Hildegaard
Crescent moons and coughing fits
Dear Hildegaard,
Tonight we saw a crescent moon. You spotted it on our walk to the car outside the hospital where we left Daddy for the night. You have seen moons before but only in books. This time, you saw one in the real night sky. When I put you in your car seat, you cried because you couldn’t see it anymore. When we got home, we tried to find it again, and when we finally did, you plopped right down in my lap in the middle of our dusky, front lawn. We sat in the grass together, listening to the cicadas chirp, looking up at that moon.
I needed that moment. Life has been so hard lately. But you - you are always joy and wonder - with sprinkles of entertaining orneriness. You are more than I ever thought to ask God for, either because I don’t have great faith or because I lack imagination. Either way, I got you. We got you, your dad and I. And after years of loss, we still haven’t gotten over getting to be married to each other let alone getting to be your mom and dad. You are just over-the-top. Over the moon.
I know my threads are showing lately - unraveling a bit. Frayed. I am less patient than I want to be. I am scared and worried and frazzled. I am texting constantly to set up sitters for you, or to renew medications for your dad or set up appointments, when I want to just look up and focus on what you are drawing with that purple crayon. You call it blue. Close enough.
I would love to be stronger for you. Instead, when trouble rains down, I get scared. I picture loss like a game of Dominos or Jenga. When one piece moves, the entire structure of life quakes. At least it feels that way. I have struggled with these images of teetering and collapse ever since the first Great Loss. I don’t think I’ve ever fully recovered from the realization that God’s love and suffering coexist. I don’t think I’ve ever gotten over the book of Job, honestly, or the habit of looking over my shoulder. Thankfully, instead of turning me into a pillar of salt, God shows patience and mercy.
He knows that we are made of dust. Dustlings, your Dad calls us. Remember that, my love. It is okay to be human, because that is what we are, after all. And when God made us, he called his creation “good.” You are dusty and you are good.
This season of Daddy coughing in pain and you, running over to put your favorite blanket across his knees, won’t last forever. Your little frame takes in so much. The emotions and frailty of the past month have not been lost on you. But we continue to visit the tomato garden every evening, snacking on its providence. And we cuddle up and read your favorite books. And you hug Daddy’s legs and he says: “Is that my Hilde-Bear?” and you smile and pat his feet. And we sit still to look up at the moon. We are going to be okay. And when we’re not, Jesus is right there beside us. Sometimes, he even cries with us. He is that kind. That good.
Oh my dear one... Love and prayers, always.
I acknowledge the threads that are showing in these days and (as one whose threads have shown much around small children) wanted to assure that there is and will be a sovereign memory loss for most of it. The very pieces that keep you up at night, wrapped in worry and motherhood guilt, are the very pieces she someday won't recall at all. You are the memory keeper, dear Rachel. And that is so hard. And yet it is precious too because your Hilde-bear will walk free of some of these dark hours. Today you are alive and you pointed to the cross, therefore: YOU WON EVERYTHING. Praying... xx
I love this so much. Your words are able to capture my experience so well - I often share them with my husband to say, “this is how I feel.” Thank you for sharing them.