autumn and all it’s glory.
Since receiving the news about Florence’s diagnosis, I have really been given a new set of glasses to view the world. After getting past the heartache, the lack of appetite, the blindness, the agony, I began to appreciate the simplest things. The way cream blends into black coffee, creating a milky tornado. An evening glass of wine, tart and tender on my tongue, while watching the sun set, the rain come in, or the clouds lift. The smile from my baby. The welcome home hugs from my husband. The unmade bed, the hot water in my taps, the goosebumps I get when I feel the comfort of Jesus.
Today was a reminder that autumn is rolling in.
I picked up some baby pumpkins in bright orange and creams, some purple decorative corn, and filled my grocery basket with fennel and sweet potato, tiny red apples and long, elegant leeks.
I’m baking those sweet potatoes for Florence to try tonight. Another first, another beautiful moment. She’s eating, and I’m so thankful, and blessing the name of my God. He is providing little gifts along the journey. Many parents are praying their little one is still breathing tomorrow. I’m thankful. I am thankful, in the midst. What are you thankful for? What are your feeling ungrateful for right now? The long ride home, the smell in your apartment, the shrinking of your shirt in the dryer, the long nights with your baby? I’ve been ungrateful for all these things. But somehow, they are fading, their importance is lost.
I’m listening to Rose Cousins, and one song is really touching my heart. It has such a strong and sorrowful sound, and I love music like that. The song is from her album “We Have Made A Spark.” So press play below and keep reading.
It’s called “One Way”, and if you listen to it right now, you might catch an image of Florence and I in the kitchen, mixing ingredients for lasagna with sweet potatoes and leeks, measuring flour and cream cheese and pureed pumpkin for a pumpkin cream cheese loaf. All the lights are off, and the kitchen is illuminated by the purple gray sky. It’s slightly eerie, but mostly warm.
One moment it’s quiet, and in the next moment I hear Florence crying out from her Merry Muscles, head hanging low, eyes cast upwards, looking for me. My heart breaks, and I drop the knife on the cutting board, run to her, lift her head too fast, which startles her. She cries and looks at me, and I look back into her eyes, “I know baby, I’m sorry. This is but for a moment.”
I cradle her in my arms, and undo the buttons on the Merry Muscles. I kneel down and hold her close to me, nose in her neck. That’s enough for today. She’s not able to bounce yet, but it’s good for her to be upright. I know her limit, and she gets tired easily some days. I try not to let it shoot holes in my armour. Some moments I feel like everything is normal, some moments I see how this is our new normal. For now. And I let those holes open wide for a moment, feel the pain as my throat closes, feel the lump, the water in my eyes.
And then I breathe. And I say You are Good, God. And I lay her down, and I pick up the knife again, and start cooking. The house begins to fill with the scent of roasting sweet potatoes, and I feel the warmth from the oven.
Yes, I tell my soul, God is Good.