"Can't we just be done?"
The tears in her eyes magnify her lashes and drip down her cheeks. They beckon to respond, "yes, let's be done, let's go back to normal." But my rational mind, the one not swayed by my mothering, has to say no.
"I'm sorry it's going on and on. We have to keep doing this and normal isn't going to happen for a while."
She cries more magnifying tears, ripping my heart in pieces with each drop.
Later, in my room alone, I cry those same magnifying tears. "Jesus, can't we just be done?"
He replies, "No, not yet. I have a plan for you."
I'd love to know His plan, the details, the timing. But He keeps answering "no." Sometimes those are His answers to my questions. But He doesn't leave it there. He doesn't just say "no" and abandon me. He says "no" and hugs me tight, communicating that He's here, He's walking with me.
He hugs me tight so I can hug her tight too.