It's been a rough week. New fears of mold in our current home. Old fears that we'll have to run away again. And so, last night, I laid on our air mattress, on the floor, and I sobbed. And I sobbed. And I sobbed and I sobbed. Chris gently tried to help me see that worry is not going to help. Shannon said, "It's not worry that's making her cry. It's the houses before this."
She was right. I didn't have time to sob when we left our house in Colorado. I didn't have time to sob when we left the house that had just been sprayed for termites. We've been on the run. And the kids have been sick. And there's always something I have to do.
Last night I couldn't stop. I cried because we've lost so much. I cried because I'm tired. I'm tired of the bloody noses. I'm tired of the headaches. I'm tired of wondering if someone's perfume is going to make one of us sick. I'm tired of worrying about Reagan and his brain. I'm tired of searching for the next best supplement. I'm tired of trying so hard. I'm tired of going to a park and wondering if it's been sprayed and if one of the kids will get a bloody nose. I'm tired of medical appointments. I'm tired of carrying around this burden. I'm tired of being "in charge." Everything is uphill and nothing feels safe.
That's it. There's no place on earth that feels safe. No place.
The truth is, there is no safe place. For anyone. The safest house in the world can't insulate us from the pain of this world. All the riches on earth won't keep us from suffering. It comes to each one of us eventually.
Megan said it three nights ago. "There's not a day that goes by that I don't think, 'It's a privilege to suffer.'" She's 22 and has suffered far more than I can fathom. I know it's true. Suffering is an honor. And I wouldn't go back. Not for all the money in the world.
I love this poem by Christina Rossetti. I discovered it when we were living in Colorado. Before I understood the illusions of safety and security.
by Christina Rossetti
Does the road wind up-hill all the way?
Yes, to the very end.
Will the day's journey take the whole long day?
From morn to night, my friend.
But is there for the night a resting-place?
A roof for when the slow dark hours begin.
May not the darkness hide it from my face?
You cannot miss that inn.
Shall I meet other wayfarers at night?
Those who have gone before.
Then must I knock, or call when just in sight?
They will not keep you standing at that door.
Shall I find comfort, travel-sore and weak?
Of labour you shall find the sum.
Will there be beds for me and all who seek?
Yea, beds for all who come.