mixed feelings

Our time in Davis is short. We're here for only one more month, and I can tell that the reality is starting to set in. We're feeling sad about leaving dear friends and familiar joys. Abby is more sensitive than usual (and she's usually sensitive!); each night this week has brought some tears and heavy thoughts about life, God, change, even fears about dying. This is not an uncommon thing for seven year olds to experience (so I read), and I vaguely remember a couple of phases of heightened awareness of my mortality--around ages 7, 12, and 30. I'm sure there are more to come, and I am glad to be able to relate to Abby when this happens. The hardest thing, though, is knowing that these thoughts are part of being human. (We hope) They will ultimately lead to a new respect and thankfulness for each day we have to experience and a deeper sense of how precious we are to each other and to God, but when Abby sobs and expresses her disappointment at the crappiness of death, it just breaks my heart. Last night she was especially upset over the death of Matty's mom and brother. She was indignant over God taking his mom away on his birthday (this, a strong emotion after celebrating mother's day and Matty not having his mother). Abby is realizing that there are no guarantees about any of our lives, and she is trying to make sense of something that hardly makes sense to any of us.

There is no coincidence that all of this comes up at a time when we are changing practically everything. For a family not at all used to moving, this is a time of great upheaval--in good ways and in tough ways. And this doesn't even begin to deal with the grown ups in the picture or the little guy, who is coming in to his own these days. He will probably adjust the most easily out of all of us, and maybe we can take some cues from his ability to express so purely his frustration and his excitement.

On my heart is the sweetest, sad and resonant wish from a parent to a child, beautifully expressed in Paul Laurence Dunbar's poem, "Little Brown Baby": "Come to you' pallet now--go to yo' res'; / Wisht you could allus know ease an' cleah skies; / Wisht you could stay jes' a chile on my breas'-- / Little brown baby wif spa'klin eyes!"

I do often wish my kiddos could always know ease and clear skies--that they could somehow be spared the harshness of this world. But then I know just a little of the beauty and winsomeness that comes with suffering, and I wouldn't rob my precious ones of the full measure of love and wide-eyed adventure (good and bad) that this life offers. Sometimes we just need to sob and kick our feet and hurt about the sad things. And then smile and giggle about the happy things. And then keep on living and knowing that we will cry and laugh and cry and laugh--a lot. So, that's where we are--we're all kind of wild-eyed and raw and sad and glad. I'm finally figuring out that no amount of planning will make moving away any more graceful. We're gonna do the ugly cry and we're gonna wake up one day soon in Princeton and smile at the thought that we are home again.