is it as strange as it sometimes feels for me to want to lament the loss of “my boys” like wendy darling being old and grownup living a different life leaving behind never never land?
i find tucked away in random notebooks and binders drawings that were scribbled by a collection of children whose stories seared themselves into my soul over the course of the time it would take for a baby to grow and be born just a bit prematurely — and then be taken away directly from mom when she wasn’t ready to let go of what was so close.
my capacity for deep connections is a blessing that disguises itself in white-knuckled form, after fighting incessantly for so long to understand how on earth something so continuously shattering can be a mechanism of not only growth and blessing, but even healing. God is breaking pieces of me to reset them so that they’ll heal correctly. he says i need to feel the broken pieces so that i know what is being healed. sometimes i wonder if i can hear what i am being taught, or if i just hear myself rustling around in my sweat and tear-soaked dreams, aching to be let go of.