Silent but with much to say

It’s been a very tiring 5 days for me. I’ve worked far too much for my liking. I’ve been more rushed and tense than I’d prefer.  I have had some wonderful moments within those days, don’t misunderstand.  But I’m exhausted.

And tonight, after my girls collapsed into their beds, having been transferred in from their car seats where they fell asleep, I had the opportunity to go to bed. Early. Before 9 pm.  But I couldn’t. 

I feel like I need to communicate something intangible. I have this urge to say something. And yet all words are empty and unimportant.  I’ve been sitting here with my laptop open, on, and my hands on the keyboard for almost an hour. And yet the words just won’t form any cohesive thoughts worth sharing.

It’s not about my busy weekend. It’s not about my world at all.  I’m left sitting here in bed, uncomfortable. Wanting to speak words of comfort and having none.  I so desperately want to share just the right note of encouragement, or the perfectly fitting verse of scripture.  But it still just feels like me talking.

For today, my dear friends, more like family really, must go to bed realizing that two years have passed since their bubbly, silly, pretty, energetic little girl hugged them tightly.  As my girls played in the pool today, laughing and splashing, I had to look away a few times for the poignant realization that water just like that was the cause of devastation that day. It literally brings me to tears to consider what they were experiencing at the end of their Labor Day in 2009.  And tears don’t begin to communicate the pain, I’m quite sure.

It seems that even though I feel strongly drawn to express what is going through my mind, it somehow cheapens such a pivotal moment in so many lives.  Like do I even have a right to be so affected by a moment that isn’t even mine directly?  Who am I to even pretend I can be of any value in a time like this?

And yet I have been blessed by the beauty that has risen from such a horrific time. The Glory of God has been shown in a manner I didn’t even know could exist in times of this kind of tragedy. The faith that has remained without fail.  The precious lives that are now part of mine due in part to a tragic loss.  Priceless. But so costly still.

I adore this family, to the point that I fear they’ll find me a little annoying one of these days, if they haven’t already.   But I would give it all back, every little blessing they’ve caused to come my way, just to return their Laynee Bug to them.  In a split second, I’d recuse myself from the learning I’ve received and the encouragement they’ve been to me, if only she could now be there with them, snoozing in her bed with her family nearby.

But it doesn’t work that way.  They know that all too well.  And they have continued to live in a most beautiful example of trusting in His promises, while never pretending not to hurt.  Never lessening the depth of the void that’s now left. 

Tonight as I sit here rambling, wishing I had something truly helpful to say or do or write or scream, I can only say that I hurt for them, with them, though I may never know the extent of the pain.  I hate that they have to hurt at all. But I know without a doubt that they live in the hands of the One who knows better than any other how it feels to lose a beloved.  And they trust Him. Implicitly.

Labor Day will never be the same, September 7th will always be marked.  For them, indelibly.   In our home, these days will never pass without purposeful remembrances of a delightful little girl we only had the privilege of knowing in pictures and through the stories told by those who love her, and prayers for the continued comfort for the 7 hearts closest to her. 

I may not have the right words at all. I pray only that God will take my heart and intentions and share that love in his perfect way.