Another One Bites the Dust

Okay, so it's been a rough day...but it's got me to thinking:

How can you comfort someone who's suffering if you havne't first experienced their pain?
How can you have compassion in it's depths if you haven't first known the depths yourself?
And how can you appreciate life if you haven't first greived the loss of it?

We live day to day, in and out, same ol' same ol' and the mundaneness of it all slowly tarnishes the passion that we once had, the dust comes ever so slowly that we don't notice we're all but covered in apathy. And the clock keeps ticking. Taking it for granted, we live at a level of piamisso granduer, all the while just assuming that tomorrow will always come. But, for some, it doesn't. For some, it takes a diagnosis of cancer before the living really gets started. It takes the loss of a loved one before we slow down and really appreciate the little things. It takes a hurricane to make us appreciate the glorified shack we once lived in, and ill-health to make us relish the aches and pains of a normal life.

We're all so fickle.

Especially me.

The more I get to know myself, the less I like me. Is such the way of always being refined? At least I'm not in love with myself, prehaps there is hope for me yet!

I broke my fast on the 8th day. And boy, did I do it in grand fashion: a burger, sweet and juicy, fresh off the grill, dripping with cheese, smothered in trimmings on a whole wheat bun. It was wonderful. I was slightly regretful that I had broken my fast; I didn't know at the time that I was pregnant. Incase you've never been pregnant: pregnant women must eat. So, then I didn't feel so bad for breaking my fast, infact (which is technically two words and not one), I slightly mourned the fact that I couldn't fast again, and wouldn't be able to for quite some time...10 months plus another year of nursing...that's nearly 2 years worth!...or so I thought.

Well, another one bites the dust. Eight pregnancies, four miscarriages. Four little peices of my heart torn from me, four little children in Heaven with their Creator. Four precious little souls left on earth for me to guide, direct, teach, discipline and love. All the more precious are they, indeed....people told me not to get married at 18. Yes, a mere 18!!! But I did anyway. How's the rhyme go? "First comes love, then comes marriage, then comes the baby in the baby carriage." And indeed, life played out the riddle and along came the baby; I was but a mere 19. And the last line played again; baby number two at age 20. Then the rhyme almost broke, the love got lost, the marrige almost crumbled, and no more babies were wanted, so that was taken care of premanently...or so we thought. But then, a peculiar thing happened and the ryhme played itself backywards...I got pregnant (shock!), the love creeped back in and the marriage mended. I was but a mere 23. And along came little Kirsten at a mere 25.

People always say, "You're too young to have four children!" And I suppose that in today's world, I am. The Mormon's think I'm one of their own, the Catholics accept me based on my status of mother of four, and the "unsaved" wonder why on earth anyone would want to have four pesky, suck-the-life-outta-ya and drain-your-wallet kids. ... Now I am wondering if every year will bring me the greif that comes with wanting, and not having a child. At 28 I'm too young to not be able to have children. Perhaps that it why I had children when I was but, in many a person's eye, just a child myself. Odd, isn't it, how life plays out. Yet, I do know, from experience, that all things will work together for good "for those who love Him and are called according to His purpose."

Tomorrow is a new day. I look forward to it. The wounds will heal, the pain will subside, and sometime, somewhere, I will be able to comfort someone, perhaps my own child, when they lose one of their own. My heart will brim over with love that knows, and I will comfort them, as the precious few that have comforted me. And I will cry, my eyes spilling with tears, in rememberance, tears of present and past loss, and I will smile, being glad that I had suffered, that I may extend comfort. My soul will mourn and my hert will break, and all the while I will be thankful that I will be able to share the burden, having known it so personally.

And in the meantime, I will let things settle, as ash falls after a volcano explodes, so will I wait for the ash to settle, then dust myself off, and be on my way. Or so I tell myself. In the meantime, I will run. And run and run and run. And let my body release the stress and the pain that it feels so deeply, so inexpressibly inside. And I will enjoy the air in my lungs, the blood pumping in my veins, and the beating of my heart. I will enjoy being alive. I will not take this gift for granted.