Almost 6 months later and here we are, all together in one place again... The elephant's in the room that everyone is aching to talk about, but terrified to expose. We all know we all hurt, but we try to pretend that this is another regular day... it's just that it isn't. She isn't here and it is abundantly obvious. It's a blessing to all be together in solidarity and love. This is just another moment for a first, and the tension is not missed, the loss is apparent, and I'm still standing there with my arms open, waiting for the hug that will never come. My arms resign to the open air and are left wanting.
Tonight at dinner my husband, Josh, and I were talking about goodbyes. He mentioned how we say goodbye with the intention of seeing someone again. When loved ones visit, you intend on the final goodbye...the one you say when everyone is heading back home... on being the best. This is the goodbye with the longest hug and the biggest kisses. This is the goodbye that you leave your loved ones with a show of how much you are going to miss them and how much you are looking forward to seeing them again. It's funny how not every goodbye is treated with such reverence... After all, we are never promised tomorrow. We'll wave, give a side hug, and say, "see you later"... but what if later doesn't come...
I know that the later of eternity always comes, that we will see our loved ones in heaven. Sometimes that later just doesn't seem fair enough, or good enough because we want what we want now. It's just so hard. I imagine that the wait is like being caught on the inside of a beach break. The wave crashes into your body, driving you into the sandy ocean floor, then lifts and tumbles you into, what seems to be, a perpetual summersault. You're not quite prepared for the on slot, so your initial breath before being forced below the surface of the water is minimal, at best. As you tumble, you are acutely aware of the time, and in direct contrast, completely unaware of which way is up or down. There is a point that everyone reaches, where fear kicks in, that your body sends a signal to your brain...like a bright light flashing within the curtain of your eyelids, telling you that you have no more breath to withstand this deluge beneath the blanket of white water. Then you find footing and the force of your legs rocket you up and out with a spray of the briny water and a desperate sucking in of oxygen.
For two years my daughter has been asking to be baptized, and for two years we have made her wait. We just wanted to be sure that she understood what choice she was making and its importance. This year she asked again with utter determination in her eyes. We have had many God talks since January, and Josh and I felt she was ready. Since she is so young our church has her fill out a pamphlet that is meant to help her understand the step she is taking. Kirra and I were going through the pamphlet and we come to this question, "When bad things happen to you, why do you continue to follow Jesus?" Kirra's initial answer was a classic Sunday school answer. I had to remind her who I was, and that I don't accept Sunday school answers. So I said to her, "Consider this year... your friends picking on you and abandoning you, and Dakota... Think about the day that you told me that you thought God was cruel for taking Dakota from us. Why is it that you still want to hold Jesus' hand? Why do you still want to follow Him?" Tears fill the corners of her eyes and spill out along the side of her nose, and hang in anticipation at the edge of her chin.
"Because God told me I would see Dakota again mom. He told me that this wouldn't be forever. He gave me hope." My child humbles me in the most gentle and sweetest of ways. God has plans and I must trust Him. He doesn't leave me empty handed; He gives me hope. Although, the wait can be disorienting and agonizing; we will break through the surface and be met with relief and the air we were so desperately craving will fill our lungs. So until that day comes, my goodbyes should be more reverent and my breaths will be more intentional, lest I find myself struggling beneath the force of the ocean once again.
