My stomach was swelled to watermelon status...at least 10 1/2 months and waiting. Fat, swollen feet...runner girl had become waddle mama.
The wood, the tile, the paint colors handpicked by yours truly, had transformed into our dream house, just outside of Memphis, Tennessee. Baby 2 was joining our team any day.
But without reason or rhyme, overnight our world exploded into absolute chaos...we suddenly and necessarily transitioned from the job my husband was in; we had been deeply betrayed and hurt by a couple we had called friends. Just a few weeks before Christmas, we were left without a way to even buy presents for our 2 year old.
There was one last sonogram before my maternity insurance lapsed and as I lay looking at my growing baby boy, the ultrasound technician notified me that she was concerned about the results. She went on to explain that my baby only had one kidney. There wasn’t a part of kidney. Nor was it underdeveloped. It simply was not. Her advice was to seek a second opinion but the tone in her voice left me worried and confused. Thoughts flooded like a storm through my mind.
Job...Christmas...betrayal...and now this...
But somehow in all this I whispered a prayer. A whisper was all I had.
The doorbell rang a few days later and it may as well have been God in the flesh. A group of our Filipino friends had heard of our circumstances and they showed up with presents for our little girl and showered us with gifts also.
My husband began working in a field he had never been trained for. It meant working outdoors in the harsh Tennessee winter and it was more than a challenge. But he had always managed to shine and quickly ascended the corporate ladder. This meant relocating to Nashville in a flash. We moved from our Barbie house to a tiny apartment.
Then Britain David Stocker entered the scene. 8.8...a chunk of a man, but entirely whole and completely healthy...perfect lips and butterball cheeks. And in this dark season...he was HOPE...a promise of new life...that there was SO much ahead...this was just the beginning...love would win out.
Somehow hope had danced it’s way right back into our lives.
Six years later, he has lassoed my heart. All the creative passion and artistic vision of me and the unbridled humor and playfulness of his daddy.
Sometimes after 13 miles...when I want nothing more than to be laying in the cool grass somewhere...after delusions have set in and I wonder why I’m actually deranged enough to keep doing this...I begin to think of all the things I would run to. And it gets me there. I consider how I would sprint to a sick child...or to my book on the bestseller list...or to lives being changed...or if my guy was in trouble...and finally I imagine that beautiful, gorgeous blond haired baby...and all is well with the world...him, with the incandescent blue eyes and the sparkling, gummy grin. And I imagine his arms reaching out and him saying, “Mommy, let me lay on your belly...Mommy, I love you” and then everything makes sense, my energy surges, and I zoom to my finish.
Because even in the dark seasons...when the struggle is real...there is always hope. You might have to run to it. But if you just keep running, I promise...sooner or later...the delusions will fade...the struggle will cease...and you will catch it.
