Almost three fourths of the original blog remains at rest. The journey home was quiet and reserved. There is an ache, a hounding urge to put into words the time between waiting and death. The word, unfinished, is still holding on to grief.
A sense of obligation to our storyline tries to draw further explanation of what transpired in the years of held back words. There is a greater need, by silencing them from escaping, to protect the brief precious season of healing together.
It was difficult to discern how much to let remain in the past and how much to bring forward. While someday a release of our experience may become appropriate, that time is not now. The missing years between chaos and departing are inadequately filled by chronicling a few sweet memories of innocent joy brought forth from the products of our love, our children.
This gap in the timeline first felt like a hindrance to writing anything of substance. Growth requires this challenge to be overcome. Love needs to be more than a what was or could have been. Since being still became stagnant, these first uncomfortable steps are being taken. My sweet children and I move forward with hope, toward all the beauty still to be discovered.