normally there is one because we share. and I help him and sometimes just feed him because it’s easier and it’s hard for him to have a steady hand sometimes.
normally I’m too lazy. too impatient.
but tonight there are two, because he’s doing it himself.
im letting him do it by himself.
I’m forcing myself to move at the speed he needs and to be ok with a floor and husband covered with rice. I’m forcing myself to be there and praying that I stay there, because when I’m helping him with everything, I’m not helping him at all.
he needs me to step back so that he can move forward.
he needs me to keep learning how to slow down my pace and ask Him for patience.
he needs me to help us get better together.
and he is so grateful, as he worked on buttoning his shirt for twenty minutes. twenty minutes to button is how hard he works.
“I need a timeout,” he said.
“why?”
“I need a kiss from my beautiful wifey.”
i should know this pace by now, in year eight. I can’t let the guilt in but need to let God shape this in me and make it possible.
mondays can be hard, leaving ian to go back into the corporate world and not being in our cozy little home that makes me happy. but this is a new week that amazing things can happen.
im praying this week that ian is given the strength and patience he needs to do well at therapy. I’m praying that I love him better this week than the last, and that he can feel that love.
this week will end with five little ones coming to the bungalow for an early thanksgiving with their mommies and daddies and gammy and grandpa doo. they will fill up the house as full as our hearts that may just burst open because a house filled means there is so much love.
this week will start, and end, exactly as God has planned.
therapy is going well. I’m working on walking and hand eye coordination. I think my walkbythirty goal is attainable if I can strengthen my legs and get better balance.
Please keep me in your prayers, because I know you will.
not every therapy session is great. Not every day Ian feels like being there or knows how to get his body to work right or do everything his therapist says.
today wasn’t one of thos days.
today was an amazing day, nearly walking without the assistance of a cane or therapist, showing us that he’s not done. showing us the some days just aren’t like the others.
this was a day that we all needed. thank you, Ian.
Larissa Murphy is a much better name than her maiden name was, because it represents two of the finest people in the world, Mary and Steve. I’m proud to have given it to her because she carries it on. Fabulously. She takes it with her everywhere she goes. I feel like I’ve done something worthwhile, marrying her, and it gives me joy.
Last week I messed up a lot. Like having too many days that I didn’t act out of kindness and too many days that I spoke out of anger.
There were so many times that I didn’t do right in our marriage and I didn’t repent and then ask Ian’s forgiveness.
i needed to be reminded what the nature of the cross is.
and so on my ten minute walk from our bungalow to my office God reminded me through the headphones that were singing with a band I don’t know.
“countless second chances we’ve been given at the cross.”
that was it.
countless second chances – not just when God turned fate from hell to heaven – but second chances every single day.
second / third / fiftieth / millions of chances to love better, fight harder, and give more. These chances are slates wiped clean, because Jesus let His blood run and seep into the wood for us, for my marriage.
second times, millions of second times, to love my husband better. And millions of second times to choose holiness.
Because Jesus’ blood has given us millions of second chances. We will never run out of do-overs while we are here, because when we give over to Jesus, He FoRgEtS those wrongs, those bad attempts and those mess ups. He forgets them as He uses them to shape us and make us more like Himself.
last night our room and home were filled with tiny little hearts that had their first sleepover at uncle ian and aunt rara/lala’s house.
the refinished wood floors in our room were covered with little beds made of sleeping bags and blankies and the stuffed pig and bunny, and the youngest slept in his crib.
we fed them sugar and disney movies and didn’t say no to any requests.
“e, did you have more fun at uncle ian’s the night we slept there with you or the night we were at the hotel,” his mom asked.
“the night you were at the hotel.”
two littles from my side and two littles from the murphy side, a murphy little sister and her friend, and a dear friend of the aunt and uncle all sat around a small dining room table for breakfast, wearing pjs and happiness.
our home was packed tight and it was good. because loving hard makes us so full.
September 30 – the day that will live in infamy for me. Some reasons why? I don’t know what happened, really, because I don’t remember it. It affected the people all around me. My life completely changed.
I wish I remembered it.
Who helped me?
Who watched me as they rescued me?
What did I look like?
Not remembering this car accident that completely shifted my life is debilitating because my inability to remember it means I can’t grieve it appropriately.
But He is good. Even though I can’t remember it, He does. And that gives me peace.
this past may was ian’s surgery that made his leg straighter. then we waited for it to heal. and then for insurance to approve his brace for walking.
now, he’s working on rehab.
this week, he didn’t use a cane at therapy. his therapist helped him by holding his waist, making his hips stay straight and assisting his balance when needed.
it flows through my chest more harshly, less the hotness of summer.
the leaves sound angrier underfoot and the dew has gone into slumber.
and all the sounds and smells and pumpkins that end up on peoples kitchen tables remind me of what fall took from me.
what left me on september 30 in a ford station wagon
what left us on october 8 while sleeping in bed.
some of us know that “then” hurts, and it always will. the way it smelled when he left. the temperature the day you miscarried. the way the grass felt in the cemetery. there’s no use pretending it doesn’t hurt. because the triggers to “then” are real. because the smells take us bac to “then” faster than we want to go.
and it’s ok to be feeling the “thens.”
there was someone who knew, “where God tears great gaps we dare not fill with mere human words.”
there was One who was sorrowful unto death.
because hurting and wanting to hide and flooding with memories means we love.
