Tuesday, November 29, 2011

The Gift of a Blue-Tinged Day

Yesterday ended in a semi-usual way. I hunkered down into fleecy sheets, wrapped them up around my shoulders, and lamented the day's events. I should have been sleeping. Instead, I was sorting through every shade of blue; the midnight morning, the indigo afternoon, the cornflower dark of evening. It had been a bad day.

Of course it wasn't all bad, but when blue barges through the door and flings his overstuffed junky suitcase across my heart, all of the good, it loses its color and shape. It floats away for a while.

There in the dark, my toes pressed cold against Cory, I ticked down the list. I whispered quiet about the boy who usually makes the wrong choice, who, in spite of every honest effort and the grasping of wild straws spins through his days with little regard for anyone else in the room.

Maybe everyone gets short-changed in the surviving. Maybe we'll never know the grip of loss on his heart. Maybe this is just the way it's going to be.

But think of all the progress.

That's what Cory said.

Think of where we were a year ago.

I know, I know. But shouldn't we be further?

I confessed my sins to the ceiling, unready to quit the day. I layed bare my impatient, short-tempered heart. I held doubt in my hands and I reached it out. Someone, please, take it.

Is this really a gift? This part, right here? Then why does it feel impossible some days?

Our words stretched thin, the spaces between them gathered, we lost steam.

Down the quiet hall, a little boy coughed and stirred.

I walked blind to where he was, my fingertips guiding me along the wall. I grabbed him up, tucked him under my white fleecy sheets. We tossed and turned together. The fierceness of my love for him, of His love for both of us, melted the blue away. His foot found me, his breath steadied. His hair smelled like hope. I drifted back to sleep, back to peace, back to knowing for sure that this, all of it, is a gift.