Gratefulness

Enter his gates with thanksgiving and his courts with praise; give thanks to him and praise his name.  Psalm 100:4

Totally missed Thanksgiving week, but that doesn't mean I'm any less thankful.

12 years ago, Thanksgiving week, Emily and Abby were diagnosed with Cerebral Palsy.  They were 10 months old and I sat in my bathroom, away from family in town for the week, as I listened to the neurologist on the phone explaining the latest MRI scans.  Both of my girls had extensive brain damage from lack of oxygen and would be disabled for the rest of their lives.  I hung up the phone, dried my silent tears and walked through Thanksgiving completely numb. 

I already knew they couldn't sit up; I knew they weren't grasping toys.  They weren't crawling or rolling over.  I tried to tell myself that they were the same children I had loved and cared for the day before.  I just had new information.  I didn't give myself an entire minute to think about it that week.  I had a giant dinner to make and babies to take care of.  I had family and friends to show up for.  I was tired of grieving.  I refused to do it again that week. 

The next week, when everyone had left and the sole responsibility was the care of my sweet girls, it hit me.  I can't fix this.  They are not going to be alright.  There'd been no miracle, even though we had all prayed so faithfully.  It was real, and I had lost them both. 

Emily and Abby

They looked so perfect, it was almost unbearable to see those little faces and know that behind those smiling mouths and little brown eyes was a brain that could not tell them sit up, feed, or calm themselves.  I looked into the cribs at little fuzzy jammie'd bundles and wondered what on the hardest of days I still ask.  How can I hold such sorrow in my arms?  How do I grieve the living when so much has died?  Is it possible to love and lose equally intensely?  Simultaneously?  Where do I find a grateful heart in this train wreck?

Oh how I love the way God answers the deepest, darkest questions of the heart. 

The truth is I can hold them and grieve them.  We have all lost a great deal, but gratefulness abounds because I can hold them.  They are there, warm and alive.   They answer me, even if it's only with yes and no.  They know me.  There is unimaginable love between us all;  given and received.  Holding sorrow in my arms is nothing compared to the pain of empty arms.  My kids smile and laugh.  They hurt and cry.  They are complete and full.  And yes, they have known loss and suffering.  Feeling the comfort of my God and peace that I can not understand opens my world and my heart to gratefulness beyond comprehension. 

Not everyone will have children like mine.  You may not face holding such sadness in your arms, but almost every parent at some time in their child's life will hold sadness in the heart for them.  Though the source of our hurt will always be different, the source for our hope is entirely the same.  All of us have a capacity and I will go out on a limb and say a responsibility to gratefulness.  God gives us each the strength and the grace we need as we need to not only deal with life, but to experience the richness and beauty of the experience, even in the sorrow.  In children like Emily and Abby, we should see the blue print for our faith.  Brokenness, grief, honesty, healing, restoration, peace, joy, gratefulness.  The journey of my children has walked parallel to the journey of my faith.

Where are you walking today?  Can you see that no matter the outcome, each moment of life and love is a moment for gratefulness?