This weekend there have been tears. Oh, yes. Enough tears to soak several tissue boxes and make you think that maybe I might have fallen into a rabbit hole of despair.
But instead this weekend, I fell face first into repair, despite, well, myself.
These days have heard lots of laughter, starting first thing in the morning with a 3-year-old boy bounding into my bedroom bellowing "Goo morning, mommy. How you sleep las nigh?" while I was still, um, sleeping.
And ending in fits of giggles after John and the boys were Irish jigging and a certain long-legged husband accidentally kicked a certain oldest son in the head ... knocking him off of his feet and sending him into a hysterical laughter at daddy's attempt at traditional Irish dance.
There's been a slow-coming surrender in remembering to turn my shaking palms back up and open the closed-knuckle grasp with which I keep trying to squeeze everything I've deemed as mine ...
and in mustering the courage and trust to actually begin such a movement to let go. Again.
This weekend afforded John and I three hours alone with each other to talk and process and sort and cry and question ... and then finally acknowledge that our ways are not God's ways and our thoughts are not God's thoughts
while giving Him thanks for that hard bit of dessert manna to swallow.
And this weekend was sprinkled with warm, sweet coffee, sipped slowly and steadily while taking in the moments that unfolded and seemed to promise renewal that, too, would come slowly and steadily.
Scenes from our Weekend