My Soul Longs

At our church, our new church, we're going through a series entitled Dear Me.  The heart of the messages revolve around 4 individuals from different age groups who pen letters to their older or younger selves.  I find these letters riveting, revealing the heart of an individual which is often so guarded.  But as I sit in the rows each Sunday thinking of what I would say to myself, I find I have no words.

I know Susan in her white wedding dress, clinging tightly to her daddy's arm, would have had no words to comfort the me who sits clicking these keys, nor would I dare whisper to her the tragedies that will mark the first decade of her marriage.  And with the same certainty I can assure you 50 year old Susan will not remember the depth of sorrow we trudged through.  Time has that effect.  It numbs.  It fades.  It scars.  But it doesn't pass quickly.

I want to write to that silly happy mama of one year ago, the one who giggled all the way to the hospital and tell her to sit in the car for one more minute.  To hold Eleanor for one more minute.  Savor that side for one more minute.  I want to write to Susan at 23 and tell her to call her dad on Tuesday morning.  Just because.  I want to write to that stupid newly wed who prayed for a few more childless years of selfish fun.  Her, I don't have kind words for. 

But mostly I don't want to write to myself at all.  I spend so much time in my head and it's not even me I long to talk to.  It's her.  Amelia.  I want to speak to Amelia.  I keep a journal for Eleanor, I have since she was born.  Updates, memories, things I want her to know when I'm too old to remember.  I started one for Amelia too before she was born.  I wrote the last entry 1 year ago Sunday.  The thought of marking down pointless anniversaries and celebrations she would miss seemed cruel and belabored.  So I ended the journal and tucked it under E's.

 But I long to speak to my daughter in a way I never understood.  I want to know her.  I want to know that she loves carrots and hates the color brown.  I want to know what makes her laugh or smile or cry.  I want to know that she feels safe and doesn't miss us, but that she longs for me.  Because I long for her.  All the pain that I felt that rainy Saturday morning when my daughter died, has changed, evolved.  I no longer cry for what I lost.  I rarely cry at all.  Instead my soul longs.

When Amelia was born I felt I could have reached out and touched the face of God.  He was so near to my broken heart.  But time, it numbs, it scars and it turns within.  Each day I feel stronger and further from the face of the Father.  But still my soul longs.  It longs for my Amelia and it longs for the intimacy of God that I felt on that day.  Amelia will celebrate her first birthday with Jesus on Sunday.  The thought of it breaks my heart.  But the hope of someday sitting with her, held tight in the perfect arms of the Father and recounting a lifetime of memories... that hope makes these days bearable. 

Psalm 42