I did this prayer-journaling thing the other day. Miri was still asleep. Ian was at work. My heart was quiet, my laptop was humming softly, and the morning air was filled with the scent of creamy, steamy coffee. I was settled on our couch, in our new apartment in Saint Paul, MN.
In the sleepy dawn of that morning, I poured out my thoughts to God and did my best to listen. One phrase still stands out. Here’s part of what I believe the Lord said: I want to see your smile, filled with freedom, unguarded. You’re my daughter. I made you to be free.
The pain has been so fresh for so long. In Georgia, reminders lined every street, every park, every… everything.
But things are new here. And I’m being brave here. I even went to a playgroup. Like, kids running around, squealing and crying and moms singing nursery rhymes and passing out goldfish kind of playgroup. It was hard at first, I’m not going to lie. Miriam is still my world, but I’ve kind of checked out of the traditional “Mommy” activities since Henry passed. So it was a little jarring… but it was also kind-of amazing. Several in this group had heard my testimony. They knew my Henry. Their arms were open. Their smiles were so free, so unguarded, like mine used to be.
I haven’t blogged much since September. But that’s not because I’ve run out of words. I’ve been crafting and drafting, editing and analyzing all kinds of words in the last nine months. They’ve been poured into a manuscript that’s now 75% complete.
Why write a book? Because when my son died, blueprint words were waiting.