His light

 There have only been a few times in my life that I have been able to tangibly feel darkness. 

Innocent's voodoo temple, human skulls placed in strategic circles, boa constrictor in the rafters. 

Praying quietly in front of the abortion clinic with Lily, a woman with eyes just full of hate stopping to rattle off profanities at the kids.

Face to face with groups of angry young men with lost and bleary eyes, several times, threatening us, our children.

A few nights when the voodoo drums pounding kept us alert and restless, the heat oppressive.

A few places Matt and I have up and left that have felt so lost, so secular, so worldly, so hopeless.

Darkness you could feel and see, so thick and heavy.

But none of that was quite the same as this current darkness.

It's been seeping in around the edges, ever since I realized I was pregnant at 39, sick and unplanned, and then weeks later my dad was diagnosed with aggressive and rare angiosarcoma. The dark night long past of losing mom to leukemia my freshman year in college dawned again out of nowhere, a nightmare I'd mostly healed and moved on from, all threatening clouds once again. 

As Haiti and our friends and family there have plunged into increasing violence, fear and darkness, I have felt it descending on me with every prayer for the country I love. Sharing in the pain and trauma and eye-opening darkness of our bonus girls has been a precious burden and crumpling privilege, all the while my father fading. 

When I think of my 40th birthday, just a few days ago really, darkness rushes in. The physical, mental, emotional memory of the day is cloaked in black...dad was so unexpectedly sick that day...I hadn't seen him in months and suddenly the decline was drastic. All big plans were laid down to just be with him, and then all small plans were laid down for my birthday as he laid in bed. The whole day we waited quietly for him to lighten the room, and he couldn't. Travel had him utterly wiped, fever burned, his head bleeding, his voice broken.

Suddenly the floodgates crumbled and icy heaviness rushed in and I've been struggling to breathe ever since. The hope we've so been clinging to for dad...the light we've so been huddling around for his healing, flickering.

I put my arm around his frame the next day, better by far and the last good day he had, and he was shaking and thin. Speaking to me took all his effort, to find his words and listen to mine around the loudness of the pain.

My dad, who has read every single word of this blog since before we left for Haiti in 2007, and prayed for it. My dad, who we all call every single time can't figure out the car...the account...the mechanics...the sink...the storm at work...the storm at home. My dad is suffering, and I've said it too many times for grace so excuse me, I don't know how we are doing this again. 

Watching mom and dad suffer have been the darkest dark of my life. 

The moment he left, Nora started burning too and the past days with her have been thick....long nights and long days and the Lord showing up, yet the darkness so heavy.  Slow recovery. Two more surgeries to go. The only children's hospital in all of Mississippi, won't work with our insurance.

When we first moved in, we talked of taking it down...the cross nailed up on our corner pine tree, wrapped in old Christmas lights and hanging crooked. I'm not a lawn ornament kinda girl, but in the end we didn't figure we could take it down without seeming to someone like maybe we had a problem with Jesus.  

We are missing the Christmas parties and concerts and decorating left and right...digging deep as we can right now just doesn't leave the time and space. But last week I begged Matt to pull out an extension cord...then to replace all the burnt out lights, and last night as I stood invisible and alone in the midnight yard trying to breath, all was black but that blazing cross...suddenly the most meaningful Christmas decoration I've ever seen. 

I wish while I was keeping watch over my flock by night, multitudes of heavenly hosts would burst forth and light up the inky sky, blazing light and burning hope, just for me, singing peace on earth.

I wish mama's nativity had more than shepherds and camels, staring down at the empty piano.

I wish Gabriel had a fear not for me, wish that every simple hymn or advent prayer didn't spring quick tears to my eyes.

I wish this darkness weren't so dark. Wish this darkness weren't so heavy.

I wish I could sleep and breath, I wish my dad's voice was strong and comforting, as it has always been. I wish I could somehow be strong and comforting for him. 

I wish I knew where this Christmas was taking us, I wish I knew where and how we were spending it. 

I wish the girls didn't have court next week, I wish I could tell them where they'll be for Christmas, too, and where the broken system is taking them. I wish Nora was done with pain and surgeries and dreaded IVs. I wish I could carry some of my sister's heartbreak for her instead of with her.

I wish Haiti wasn't headlines of horror lived out by men and women precious to us. I wish I could stop crying in front of these precious children, who love strong and simple.

I wish this increasingly dark night would break like our blazing crooked cross penetrates the neighborhood. 

His light.

It is all that I have. 

Nothing else. 

There will be nothing else this Christmas, there never has been.

I wonder as I wander how it will be enough?... and in the same instant know that the meaningful thing about Christmas is that it already has been.