sometimes.

large fingers pushing paint
you're god and you've got big hands
the colors blend... the challenges you give man
seek my part... devote myself
my small self... like a book amongst the many on a shelf
sometimes i know, sometimes i rise
sometimes i fall, sometimes i don't
sometimes i cringe, sometimes i live
sometimes i walk, sometimes i kneel
sometimes i speak of nothing at all
sometimes i reach to myself, dear god

-EV




Sometimes I reach to MYSELF.


There have been so many times over the course of this journey where people have been so bold as to tell me, "God doesn't give you what you can't handle."

I have a strong reaction to that kind of "comfort" that I suppress for the person sharing, as I know it's what they tell themselves to get through their own trials and tribulations. But for purposes of full disclosure, I'll share here what I think of it.

Bullshit. It's complete bullshit. It makes no sense to me why a god who is hailed as benevolent, compassionate, and loving would even present the world with such pain as dying children. Children who live in hospitals. Children hooked up to machines. Children who never see the light of day. Children who never even had a chance. Or how a god such as He would allow such innocents to be born to people who aren't even close to being able to call themselves parents; people who can't even be classified as animals because they're just pure evil. Manipulators. Abusers. Murderers. And remarkably, this same god doesn't strike these villains down with one fell swoop. No, He lets them live on, wasting each day they have on this earth. To the believers out there, I'm sure this comes across as blasphemous. But to other mothers and fathers who, like myself, have been forced to let their own children- their babies go, this is a natural question and contradiction that resonates from within their souls. When you carry questions like this with you every day, you begin to see why people walk away from faith. Some say that God will instead give you the means to navigate through turmoil like this. If there is a God and if that's the case, I hope I'm given the peace to deal with a heart and mind that will always throb with the pain of void. I hope I'm granted the means to somehow understand how my child didn't even have a chance as I sit and watch the evening news rehash the day's crimes. But I'm not counting on those things for myself. I'm counting ON myself.
I muddle through this madness with my heart on my sleeve. I walked through the grocery store today, a fragile mess. Eyes brimming with tears growing, ready to spill over the edges and flow down my cheeks. As I approach our one year anniversary, I plan for the big celebration of Helena's birthday. I do my best to focus on her, a living light beam of dripping sunshine. But I won't deny the heartache I feel. I cry every time I search for birthday invitations for her. I cry when I look at birthday cakes. I cry because one should be two. I cry because the distance between my past with her and my present without her is growing.