Voices in the Storm

You said it must not be that bad since he works all the time anyway.

He does work a lot, he's a good provider.

You said you wished you were in my position, that the time I spend with my family is a rare gift.

It is a gift. And I am thankful - truly. I love my family and the days are joyful and spent in good company. Many are alone and facing much worse than I am - I see this. I pray for these people, it's all I can do.

You said there isn't a good reason for the separation in the first place, that the world is overreacting.

I can't even listen to this fully, I can't dwell on the betrayal it makes me feel.

Because you see, yesterday our son recognized my voice for the first time. His face lit up when I spoke to him - just the latest in the endless string of new developments. He coos, trying to speak to me. And it was such a wonderful moment, such a big milestone, but all I could think was that he won't recognize his father's voice by the time we're back together.

He's so little, once we're back together he'll relearn his father's voice and face quickly. They have years of bonding ahead of them. But please, don't tell me we're not losing something in all of this. Because we are. And it's okay to recognize that.

Because we love each other and our son. And sometimes love requires difficult decisions. Christ is our ultimate example of love and sacrifice. I’m so grateful for a Savior who knows and understands, no matter the hurt.

Hebrews 4
14 Seeing then that we have a great high priest, that is passed into the heavens, Jesus the Son of God, let us hold fast our profession.
15 For we have not an high priest which cannot be touched with the feeling of our infirmities; but was in all points tempted as we are, yet without sin.
16 Let us therefore come boldly unto the throne of grace, that we may obtain mercy, and find grace to help in the time of need.

Rhythms

How long have you been crying? A minute? Ten? I check my phone - it's two in the morning. 

Slipping out from beneath our comforter and its warmth, I head to the nursery. It's been three weeks since we came home from the hospital, but the routine is already set. After a diaper change, I re-swaddle you, go to the rocker, and we start a round of midnight feeding. You're frantic at first - all smacking and rooting and fists - but you settle into contented sucking after a moment. 

And looking down at your face in the faint glow of the nightlight, I could cry you're so beautiful. I can hardly believe God gave you to us.

You nurse until you're so drowsy you don't even wake up while you're burped. Then you're back in your crib, and I steal out of your room. It's been an hour but it doesn't feel it. Time is already flying.

I slip back beneath the comforter beside the warmth of your father, and just like almost every night, he wakes up a little. Light sleeping is the paramedic's curse I suppose. 

Then comes the moment that has become the last part of my routine. Though I sleep on my side with my back to him, he reaches over and runs a hand over the brown hair I gave you. 

"You're doing a great job," he whispers. "I love you, babe."

Then he rolls over and is fast asleep once again. 

And you know, it's strange. There's a lot to miss - now that three more weeks have passed and the world is upside down. I miss the way he keeps me laughing, the comfort of our everyday conversations, the warmth of his hand in mine. But right now, more than anything else, I miss that moment. Now that I creep back under a cold comforter with only an empty space beside me, I miss his midnight whispers and his fingers in my hair.

Your daddy and I didn't know how much we could love before you came along. How much we could love each other, how much we could love you.  In a world filled with craziness, our love for you is uncomplicated. 

So we'll stay apart as long as we need to. 

But from my cold bed to his - I love you, babe. You're doing a great job.