My last post here was in July, but September is almost over and I’m still thinking about grief. Shelby started high school last month and it is great! I love her teacher, she loves being with her friends. I am so thankful for her program and those who work with her. But I am very aware of how different her high school experience is from that of my friends’ kids. Every week we have dinner with our life group and the conversation almost always revolves around class selections, althletic teams and dating. Most recently – who is getting asked to homecoming and how they were getting asked (since the latest trend is invitations to Homecoming that rival marriage proposals in scale and creativity). These things SHOULD be talked about. High school is what is important to my friends right now. But I always feel a little stab of pain to be reminded of all that my daughter, who is enrolled in the same school, is missing. But Matthew 5:4 says, “Blessed are those who mourn, for they shall be comforted.” And He comforts me – over and over again. When a high school senior requests Shelby as her Best Buddy. When someone at church tells me how sweet Shelby’s voice sounds (when she speaks out in the middle of church). When my mom volunteers to come and sleep in the same bed with Shelby – just to guarantee Chuck and I an uninterrupted night’s sleep. When family members generously help finance a surgery or an experiemental medication so they can be a part of her potential healing. When someone takes the time to read my blog – what an honor. Every time someone lifts Shelby up in prayer. Each hug from Shelby that lasts a little longer than is socially appropriate. Every snuggle and giggle. Every smile. And this:
a letter Shelby brought home from school. It’s in braille, so Shelby’s teacher translated it for me.
I love you so very much and I love your train noises.
Shelby’s admirer is blind so what he loves about her are the noises she makes on the bus. I LOVE THIS. This may be the only love note Shelby ever gets, which is something else for me to mourn. But not today. Today, this letter is a moment of perfection. A blessing. A comfort. Thank you, Jesus, for something so precious.