Well, the car was going to cost $5400 to fix, and since the Blue Book value is only $1500, that was a no go. We're getting a new car, actually a used car, but it'll be new to us. It's a 2001 Alero, midnight blue. I've always liked the look of the Aleros, so I guess I'm glad to be getting it.
But I'm sad that I totalled my car, and not even primarily because I was attached to it. No, because paying for the new car is going to set us back several months in our adoption savings. I think you can probably understand why I cried when I found that out.
I haven't been posting here very much lately. I loved all your suggestions for things to post about, and I've stored them away in my mind, but I can't find the energy to actually follow through on the writing. Just living, just getting through the days, is taking all the emotional energy I have right now.
The normal me, introspective to an almost scary degree, would have by now figured out why, exactly, I'm so drained. I'd be lying if I said I haven't considered possible reasons. I'm just too tired to pick one, or maybe I can't figure out the one reason because it's actually all the reasons. At any given time, the thing that is making me cry, the thing that is making me feel like tomorrow will be impossible to survive - that's the reason.
It's been more than two years now since we first started trying to conceive, more than two years of slowly realizing, month by month, that life is harder than we ever expected it to be.
Michael Card's Maranatha has always been one of my favorite songs, but I've never been able to embrace the sentiment myself. I've always felt that it would be a tragedy for time to end now, when so many of the joys of my life are clearly still to come. One moment a few nights ago, I suddenly understood in one blazing flash, and that little word, maranatha, crept its way into my heart, where it has lodged itself firmly.
And of course it occurs to me, as things always do, that perhaps this is part of what I'm meant to learn from this whole experience: that this life is not, and should never be, our final hope. It's something that I know in theory, but for the first time in my twenty-three years I'm starting to know it with all of me.
That doesn't mean I don't still have hope that these rough, hard days will give way to smoother, richer ones. If I didn't have that hope, I'm not sure I'd be able to crawl out of bed in the morning. The energy to dream actively is gone, but underneath those dreams are still there.
And don't get me wrong - I'm grateful to be learning and growing. Mostly, though, I'm just putting one foot in front of the other, just waiting for this time to be over. Because this is harder than anything I ever imagined.