The middle has been a place of ache recently. Long trip this past week, which was good, but left us wiped out. Then immediately back to all-star soccer tournaments. Both Jack and Julia loved playing with these teams, but both had disappointing outcomes. Of course I realize that at least 75% or more of the teams leave without winning anything (brackets of 8 to 15 in the tourneys, 1rst and 2nd place trophies). But it can be excruciating from the sidelines to watch a random ball make the difference between being in and being out, to watch the season end on a defeat. In the end I think it was sadder that the season was over than that the teams lost. J and J have made some friends, and it is the one place in America that they feel most at home. More goodbyes, hard days. And as well as Luke is doing, his road is also a steep one. Wish we could make it better for him. And our parents all have their challenges in health and changing relationships and growing limits, and I know we don't help them the way we should.
So in the early morning hours, awake and wondering how to make this week one of Thanksgiving when my heart is in a fog, how to honor our parents and care for our kids at the same time, how to bind up the hearts that are sad, how to be sensitive to change and age and expectation. Looming over us, the reality that this week with Luke is one of our last for a long time. The sorrow of that threatens to engulf, not just sorrow for myself but even moreso sorrow for our kids and our parents, all of whom suffer losses from our lifestyle.
At that moment in the dark, there was a glimpse of reality, one of those rare moments when the veil is pierced: Jesus feels the same way I do right now, when He looks at this world, sorrow for our sorrows. Jesus wept. He had hope, He knew He was the resurrection and the life, and yet He entered into our time-fettered world so completely, that in the moment of loss, He wept.