Do you remember that feeling you used to get as
a kid when you had to go to the doctor for a shot? You watch as the nurse
prepares the needle and those little knots begin to form in your stomach.
Inevitably, you know what’s coming and you know it’s going to hurt. Taking a
deep breath, you brace yourself for the pain.
In two weeks, I will pack my bags and I will get
in a taxi and I will drive away from the place I have called home for the last
ten months. I will drive away from what ten months ago was just an empty
building. I will drive away from nine little girls who made me a mother for the
first time. I will drive away from a life we built together on nothing but
faith, trust and hope. The girls and I will come to the end of our journey
together as a family and we will say goodbye to this sweet season God gave us
with each other.
A very hard thing lies before us.
I have those same knots in my stomach I did when
I was a kid at the doctor’s office. Every day, I step a little bit closer to
what I know will be inevitable heartbreak, surging pain and a very deep sense
of loss. The anxiety that floods my heart every day when I realize that my
moments with my kids are now becoming fewer and fewer has overwhelmed me. How
do you prepare for what you know will be the hardest thing you ever have to do?
How do you enjoy the moments you still have left without thinking about how
they will soon only be memories? How do I finish with no regret? I know that
there will always be more that I could have done, more I could have said, more
kisses and hugs I could have given. I also know that nothing in my own power
could ever be enough for them.
I’m learning the
hardest part of the battle: letting go.
I will have to feel the lightness in my palms when you realize
your hands are empty. And in between letting go and feeling my hands fill
again, it may feel like I’m standing in a desert. A loss before the next
chapter starts; that’s where grief happens.
I’m scared. I’m scared of tearing the band-aid
off. I’m scared to go back to life as a normal 23 year-old, going out with her
friends on a Friday night instead of tucking nine little girls into bed. I’m
scared of not hearing squeaky little voices yell, “Natty Mummy!” at me anymore.
I’m scared of the loneliness I will feel when I go home, of feeling forever
torn between two lives. I’m scared of how much it will hurt to miss them. I’m
scared to move on without them.
People told me I was brave for moving here to do
this. But I think my bravest moment will be to leave this behind and come home
with faith that God still has more for me. Hope that the best is still yet to
come.
The good thing about getting a shot is that once
it’s over, it works from the inside out to make you well. The medicine works to
protect, restore, and heal you. At the end of it all, you’re better for that
shot. You’re stronger. You’re ready to stand back up again.
The pain was worth it.
