For me, the category of Things to Blog About is sometimes a narrow one. There are lots of things that happen to me which are way too mundane: for example, I brush my teeth every day, several times. That's boring. To inspire me to write, something has to be bigger than that: for example, if ever I'm brushing my teeth and a snake crawls out of the toilet, you'll definitely hear about it. (Iccch. I really hope that never happens to me!)
But at the same time, some things are overwhelming, too big to write about coherently. Too big doesn't mean "I'm brushing my teeth and an elephant drops out of the ceiling" - that's definitely bloggable unless I'm unconscious afterward. No, "too big" means intangible. It means I can't get my words around it; I can't contain it with carefully arranged letters.
I haven't been writing this week because "hey! I learned to make really good pie crust!" - even though it's true - pales in comparison to This. This which I can't explain, but which I think of wonderingly as my Own Advent, because that is exactly what it has been.
It's easy, in this particular life situation, to see hope as an enemy, as something to be suppressed because it makes the pain harder. I've never seen it quite that way, but I have to admit that it had slipped away from me this summer/fall, through my depression and our passing the two-year mark.
Over the past month, I'd been getting reminders that I need to hold onto hope. At first, it was just a feeling I had. Then I got a letter from my dad, telling me about a sense he'd gotten that it's very important for us to keep hoping. It all percolated until last Tuesday in Adoration, where I got a blinding-flash message from God that's hard to describe simply, but goes something like this: Ask me for a miracle.
Two days later I was kneeling during the consecration at Mass, and another message came, not in blinding-flash-from-God form, but in you've-always-known-this-yet-are-just-now-realizing-it form. It admonished: If you can believe in such an amazing thing as God's essence fully entering this bread and wine, how can you fail to believe he has the power to accomplish an infinitely smaller miracle in your own womb?
Out of those two moments hope is suddenly within reach again, and my world seems a completely different place. And wow, it's an amazing place to be. Freeing and devastating, all at once. It's too big, as I said, to explain. My words simply can't contain it.
We discerned this year that God's not calling us to treatment or adoption right now, and although I accepted that and defended it here, I'd be lying if I said I didn't have words with Him about it. Treatment and adoption are good things; they're good ways to move out of this childless place. I've been, at times, a little green about the fact that God calls others to move down them, while we get to wait here. But I understand now that although others' paths may seem better, they're not better for us, because we're called to this. It's as simple as that.
I know that if this waiting lasts much longer, I may feel frustrated again. Right now, though, I can't imagine that. I'm here, and I'm discovering more every day. I'm understanding God's sovereignity over and love for creation in ways I've never understood it before. This understanding, and the hope I thought I might never see again, are plenty of an Advent for me.