Thursday, December 7, 2017


Grief is annoying. Just when you think you can breathe again and things are going a little better, seemingly out of left field you're hit again. BAM.
That's what happened today at just before 8am this morning. I start my day at 5:30, slowly waking to have my coffee, let the dog out (yes, we got a dog), and try to pry open my eyes from yet another night of sporadic sleep. Every morning, I try to cling to that joy that's there (Psalm 30:5). The little people do not yet grasp this joy and so they very begrudgingly and painfully slowly rise up and start their day. I try not to let it get to me, but sometimes it does. Sometimes I herd them into school like cats and wish the other two that are clinging to my legs and hips could stay, too. Other days, I want to keep every single one of my arrows (Psalm 127:4) home with me so we can sit on Chip and JoJo chairs in our hypothetical library with the puppy in our laps and learn Spanish like all those perfect homeschool mamas on Instagram. But this is real life and we're late.
I buckle my little loves into their chairs and hand them an array of breakfast items that will inevitably end up on the floorboards and in their ears. I don't know why either. 
Abel got a new ear two weeks ago. I don't think I've talked about it here, but it's not a new processor per se; there was not another surgery. Instead, his cochlear implant company came out with a device called the CROS link system that takes sound information gathered from his unimplanted side and sends it to the implanted side so he has access to more language and sound. It's about the size of a hearing aid so it's tiny and made for adults primarily. In other words, it's not Abel proof. In two weeks, he has already broken it once. Yesterday, he didn't want to wear it after school so I put it in a very specific spot in my car so that I would know exactly where it was this morning for school. He goes in waves. Sometimes he wants to wear it all the time. Other times, he doesn't want to wear it at all. After testing in the sound booth on Monday, we know it is helping his hearing tremendously so obviously we want him to bond with it and become responsible with it like he is with his processor. But with all things new, it's a process. I went to grab his CROS link this morning and it was gone. It's not about the money. It's a two thousand dollar device once you pay for it and all the appointments that are required to program and set it up. Most insurance companies consider hearing devices a cosmetic expense and won't pay anything on them. So we put two thousand of our eggs into this basket, but who's counting? Anyway, I just want him to have the best opportunities he can. I don't want him to cry in gym because it's too loud and the language isn't clear. I don't want him to sign "mama" in large crowds. I don't want him to wake up in the middle of the night and not be able to hear a fire alarm like his siblings. I don't want him to have to rely on power, a charger, just to be able to use a sense that most of us take for granted every hour. I don't want him to have this deafness. I want it. I want to take it from him.

Most days, I see the blessing of his deafness. I see the incredible opportunity Abe has to work hard and defy statistics. I dream of him being an interpreter, trilingual, an etymologist, in communications, a musician, or anything his heart desires. I can also recognize all the amazing people that were brought into our lives with his diagnosis years ago. I see how it's molding my other kids and how I hope they'll be more accepting of differences in their classmates because of it. Just the other day, they were playing that they met a kid on the playground who was deaf and they began signing to one another and purposing to "help" him find his mom. I mean, there are endless things to be thankful for.
But for five minutes in the car, I let myself be sad again. I think that's okay. 
The truth is that he is deaf and THRIVING.
Even teach his old mom to ponder on that joy that comes in the morning. To soak it in. To remember that the God in Heaven made all things, to include my sweet second born, and he made them perfectly. He is in the details of our lives. He loves us unconditionally, perfectly, wholly, supernaturally.

"And I pray that you being rooted and established in love, may have power, together with all the saints, to grasp how wide and long and high and deep is the love of Christ, and to know this love that surpasses knowledge--that you may be filled to the measure of all the fullness of God."
Ephesians 3:17-19

Abel is full. I'm full. Through HIM, we are full. Thanks be to God.


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