Wrangler Dani

The wind is howling today. The rattle and wheeze of it against our creaky house woke our little guy early this morning, and when Adam got ready for work in pre-dawn darkness he tumbled a sleepy toddler, still holding a floppy-eared stuffed puppy and blankie, under the covers with me. I love the groggy ramblings of the kids, even though they steal my sleep they are wiggling hot-water-bottles of comfort. Isaiah patted my head and made kissing noises with his puppy on my face, talking to me about the whoosh outside, “I hear the wind, mama, the wind! It scare me, mama, it scare me!”

I pull him in close and plant a kiss on his decidely-homeless-looking mop of hair, and he goes back to 2-year-old boy mutterings, “train go choo, I see tractor, mom…”

I write this because I cried and prayed for these children and they are a gift, one I do not take lightly. But in my weak short-sightedness I still chafe against the restraints of motherhood (sometimes it would be nice to sleep in, or to write without interruption, or or or…). Here, I’ll transcribe this minute’s interlude for your enjoyment: “Mom my oatmeal is sad! Look mama I made a hat!”

Sometimes I sigh because I miss my own thoughts, then just as quickly I want to grab these little attention-goblins and cover them with grateful kisses. So when I do get my mind to myself, I’ve been thinking about the odd juxtaposition of gratitude and grief. I like to study history and I know that pandemics and plagues are as old as humanity itself, that our current situation is neither unique nor the worst it could be. Gratitude and, yes, still: grief.

Of course, “it could be worse” is a bleak path to travel, just because you aren’t currently quarantined as an illiterate medieval peasant doesn’t mean quarantine is fun. But how we lash at each other in our boredom and stress – as if the pain is lessened if it’s all someone’s fault. I was in a virtual meeting recently in which the strain and fear of the last few weeks poured out in quivering, dangerous rage, like a murky, destructive floodwater, there was no holding it back. Every day I read another rant about how everyone needs to do their part and stay home, even though from what I can see everyone is doing their part; who are we mad at, exactly? Maybe it’s time to simply affirm how hard we’re trying, that there hasn’t been a worldwide rush of riots or break-ins or suicides, we are trying to entertain and teach our kids and keep grandparents healthy and not panic about our jobs and not go insane ourselves and we’re doing pretty well at it, all things considered.

Speaking of doing well (ha), my personal dam broke Friday afternoon and I cried hot, unrestrained tears for about 48 hours. Adam and I watched a virtual concert last night and one of the artists said “God is not an insecure father, he is OK with our grief, fragility and hard questions” and I cried again, this time from relief. Of course I know this. I don’t claim to know all the answers but I know, in my core, in my bones, that there is a God, that he is good and not exasperated by my frailty, my hot tears and big questions and lack of grace, even with the people I love the most.

This faith doesn’t mean I am unshaken by the gusts buffeting my heart, pushing over my fences and rattling my windows. Like my toddler, I hear the wind all around and it scares me. I’m writing from the wreckage, from a broken heart. I’ve lost something that means a great deal to me, something that is defining and powerful and courage-giving, and I don’t know if or when I will get it back. But I believe with all my heart that hope is not based in circumstance, faith is not about my dreams coming true or my life working out the way I planned. Hope is something bigger than plague or sorrow, economic upheaval or empty arms. Real hope is the sun that never sets – we are spinning, not it.