We were in NY since Wednesday. There will be other posts about that later. But, this is about right now.
Riding the subway one evening I saw a man who’s neck and upper portions of his spine were curved over enough so that, without straining, all he could see was his feet. He couldn’t see the people in front of him, he surely couldn’t see anyone behind him. He couldn’t see the signs for the trains. At one point, he made a fist with his hand and propped it underneath his chin and physically forced his head up. And, even still he had to strain his eyes to go as far up as they could to see which train was coming on which track, etc.
I wanted to cry for the man right then and there.
I wanted to ask him if he wanted some help reading the signs.
I wanted Jesus to come back.
I can’t imagine a life where you only see your feet and the ground beneath you. One stair at a time; never the top of the staircase, the top of the building, the top of the mountain, the sky, faces. How isolating. How lonely. How…limiting.
I mean reality is, there is a whole world around him. It exists. He knows it exists. He just can’t see it all at one time. And, I’m sad that this man has to live with this pain. This pain that reaches far beyond the physical. But, I also see my pain in his. The fight, the struggle, to see beyond the “right nows”.
Right now I see an empty house with an empty nursery upstairs.
Right now I see empty arms.
Right now I see babies everywhere, but Brooklyn is never one of them.
Right now I see pregnant bellies and look down and see my empty womb.
Right now I see tears.
I long to see road signs for what’s up ahead. I long to see the top of the staircase from where I stand. I long to see the mountain top from the valley I lay in. I long to see faces that aren’t marked with the discomfort my pain makes them feel.
Even when I lift my chin up to see what I can see, it’s uncomfortable and painful because Brooklyn is not there. I have to look far beyond the physical to see Brooklyn, and the whole world seems to scream at me saying her home doesn’t exist. This takes more faith, hope, trust, perseverance than I feel like I have most days.
I have to be brave today. I don’t mean that in a pep-talk sort of way, I mean that in a literal sort of way. I have to go be with my family, without Brooklyn. I have to be with the new first great grandchild. And as much as I love them all and want to be looking forward to this first meeting of the newest member of the family, it is clouded with fear and sadness. I have to force my eyes up, looking for His comfort, seeking His reality. I have to step into the place where my mourning and others’ joy collide. Somewhere only We know.