The In Between

 

 

A few weeks ago, our laundry room flooded.  The floor needed to be ripped out, and well, it is a process.

So, I began taking our laundry to the laundry mat once or twice a week.

At first, I was irritated with the loading and unloading of the baskets.  It seems that any time I needed to take the multiple loads of laundry to be cleaned, a child would undoubtedly need their bedding washed as well.  And the amount of laundry continued to multiply. 

The good news is, doing all the laundry at the same time gets it all done in one swoop.  But it still takes time.

And then, I began to enjoy that time.  Those hours were inviting.

I found myself alone in the laundry mat waiting for the clothes to finish washing so I could transfer them.  This is when I found time to read, catch up on emails, or just sit in the quiet.

While waiting for the clothes to finish one cycle and move on to the next, I found myself in the in between.  Not just the in between of the washer and the dryer, but the in between of life.

 

This week I received a call regarding my daughter’s upcoming MRI.  My instinct told me that the MRI was scheduled rather quickly.  We were only told a week ago she would need this MRI for something that did not appear very worrisome.  I followed that instinct, and I called the doctor’s office that requested the tesI to see just what they were hoping to find or, rather, rule out.

An orbital tumor

My three-year-old.

My precious baby girl.

Our official “we are doing with babies” baby.

She has medical disabilities already, and this fiery daughter of mine has overcome so many obstacles in her short life:

She was born very early at 23 weeks.

She has a trach that she depends on to breathe (although we are hoping to lose that accessory soon). 

She has a feeding tube for nutrition as we are still working on eating.

She has Adrenal Insufficiency that requires daily steroids just so her tiny body can keep up.

She has been in the hospital more times than I can count.

So now, we must worry about a tumor?

It does not seem fair.

Although, life rarely is. 

The MRI is scheduled for next week. 

This week, I find myself in the in between- the time between transferring my worry from one cycle to the next.

It is during times like this that I find it difficult to move, to concentrate, to focus on anything but the big bad thing looming overhead.

So I transfer the laundry.

As I stood quietly against the tables in the quiet laundry mat that are meant for folding, listening to the whirring of the machines and lost in my own thoughts, I realized that this is where my faith is tested.

The in between.

Do I worry?  Or do I welcome the unknown and allow God to take me into His arms for rest?

Do I google? Go down the rabbit hole of all things orbital tumor and drive myself to the brink of shutdown?  Or do I simply give my worries over to Him and know that He is faithful?

When things are good or bad, it is easy to cast all our cares.  We are well versed in praising God for the good things and praying to God during the bad.

But the in between

It is possible to live dreading a dangerous storm even while the sun is shining.    It is possible to plan for the worst while praying desperately for the best.

The in between, where fear and love co-exist

Where anxiety and peace share their story

This is where I will live for now.

When I do not know if the outcome will be great or grave, it is difficult for me to know what to do.

 So, I simply pray.  I pray for the next step. 

I stand in the in between waiting to transfer the clothes and my worries.

And I fold the laundry.

 

 

To the mother of my son’s best friend:

 

Thank you.

When my son was little, I prayed for him to have a friend.  His medical needs were limiting his ability to walk, talk, and play, but I so dearly wanted him to experience the love of a friend.

I dreamt of lego parties and muddy shoes.

I longed for sleep overs and slices of pizza.

As we entered Kindergarten, I looked on the roster and tried to depict what children might be his friend.  But choosing friends, even when you have disabilities, comes naturally.

And so, years of friendship formed within the walls of our small school.  Though he could not talk, my son would light up at the sound of your child’s name.  He would giggle and squirm, all signs of happiness in our world. 

Pictures were taken.  Gifts were given.  Memories were made.

And my momma heart melted with every single one.

Maybe this feels awkward being thanked for something that appears small.  But, dear friend, please know, in our world your child moved mountains.

They created a language just between them.

They shared smiles and secrets.

Your child made a choice to include my son. 

They held his hand. 

They spoke to him naturally and with purpose. 

They picked him for partners during PE, knowing his participation was limited.

 

At the end of his life, when nothing else mattered, those friendships stuck with me.  They helped me realize that his life, though short, had been so full of love and laughter.  His life had been meaningful.  He had been given the gift of friendship so pure and natural.

Now, among the pictures and memories that hang on my wall, I cherish a picture of my son with your child.  It reminds me daily of the innocence that exists in childhood friendships and the love that was given so freely to my boy.

So, friend, thank you.  Thank you for allowing these friendships to grow.

From one momma heart to another, those memories will never be forgotten.