It's all in how you remember

If you know or if you don't...we are knee deep in the process of hubby adopting my (our) son. There are so many parts of this that are hard, and the whole thing has just reopened wounds that have long since been covered with band aids that were not the right size.

Tonight as my son and I were laying on my bed talking, I brought up the subject of the adoption. He has gone up for prayer twice in the last month at church, and so I figured that it was time for him and I to talk about it. As I thought, there was a lot of things riding under the surface. At the beginning of the process he appeared to be taking it all really well...but now there are thoughts~ so many thoughts that he has. And I have many of my own.

But tonight we were able to go to a place that was really raw with each other. He told me that he missed his biological father. (OUCH) I thought for a moment before speaking and told him that I figured it was "the idea" of said biological father that he misses~ not the actual person because they have not seen each other in 14 years. Mike has no memory of him...for that I am thankful. As we spoke longer he agreed that he does not remember...that what he thinks about is what I told him~and that got me to thinking.

So I told Mike that it is hard for me because I do remember~ I remember that day when it happened. I remember holding him in my arms when he died, and looking through the emergency room window as they were working on him...wondering if they would be able to save him. I remember him being in a coma for 6 days and the nurse telling me that if he did not open his eyes that day, that the next day I would have to make decisions about signing papers to have his life support turned off. I remember those things...he does not. His memory of this is that of a story that he heard, like it happened to someone else. And that is how he thinks about it...in the distance.

But it is not distant to me. When I think about it too long, I can see him that day when I walked in the house. I can feel the weight of him in my arms as I drove him to the hospital. I feel almost haunted by the sounds of the death rattle. More than anything I want to forgive my ex-husband. More than that I want to forgive myself for leaving him at the house that day. I want my mom to forgive me for asking her to babysit him while I went to the Dr's office.

I just want to be forgiven. I want to forgive because I know that Christ forgave me first. But every June 1st it comes back. A reminder of how the door to my childhood and innocence was slammed shut behind me like the iron doors of a prison. The saddest part of that is that I know the door is open...but I just can't seem to find my way out...

But my son...my son is not angry, he does not feel like his insides have been ripped out. He just knows that he is loved, by his Dad, the dad who held him when he was sick. The dad who taught him how to ride a bike and tie his shoes, and climb trees and fish and hunt and drive the car into the driveway! The dad who has been there every day, day in and day out. Loving him the best way that he knows how.

It really is all in how you remember... and as I write this tonight, I am doing my best to remember that The same God that saved my son and breathed life back into his body that day in the hospital is the same God who wants to give me back everything I've lost.